


tainted red

by hilyuc



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Development, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mage Donghyuck, Past Abuse, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Templar Mark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilyuc/pseuds/hilyuc
Summary: Like before, when they were children running around the gardens with bright smiles and fluttering hearts, and like now, when they're standing on opposite sides of the same battle with bodies bruised bloody and weapons drawn for reasons neither of them have control over - Mark and Donghyuck meet again.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	1. long was his silence, 'fore it was broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been in my head for a little over a year now, and I've been actively planning it for the past couple of months because it's a Huge project and I'm both excited and terrified to be finally sharing it.  
> I don't have that much to say, since it is only the first chapter of a very long fic, except that I haven't added all the tags yet, because some themes will become present as the story progresses, so keep an eye out for them just in case...  
> The story will be told from two POV's - Donghyuck's and Mark's, and they'll switch according to the story!  
> This is based in the world of the Dragon Age games if you didn't notice in the tags. You don't need to have played the games to read this story, but if you Have played them and have any sort of knowledge on the lore pls look away if some things aren't exactly the way they are in canon; the lore of this series truly is deep so it's impossible for me to be aware of every single detail and rule.. also some things needed changing to fit the narrative better so please don't pay it too much mind D:
> 
> I will leave you to the reading! I hope you enjoy <3

The ground is damp beneath his feet, soaking through the soles of his boots and wetting his feet up to his ankles. It’s dusk. At least it was when he fell asleep. It’s impossible to tell now, to tell here, because all is dull and blurred like an image just out of focus when one wakes to blink away the sleep from their eyes. 

Donghyuck’s lost, always is here, and yet, he keeps moving forward, steps careful and feet hitting the ground softly like movements of a hunter with wide eyes and steady breaths, treading through the forest with an arrow drawn, limp at his side. Even now, Dongyuck itches for the familiar feeling of his bow under his calloused palm, to feel the engraved prayers of the Dalish Gods and trace the words with his fingertips in an attempt to comfort himself in an unfamiliar place such as this one. 

But he has traded his bow for a staff clutched tightly in his hand, and it weighs both heavier and of bigger importance than a mere bow ever could.

Donghyuck takes a deep breath and halts to a stop.

The ground’s covered with a thin layer of water now, and Donghyuck’s beginning to feel cold. Usually not a good sign, so he closes his eyes and does his best to clear his mind, to steady his breathing, to stop his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest.

It’s not any different than the other times, Donghyuck tells himself in a fleeting thought that’s gone just as quickly as it had formed, not wanting the others to hear, let alone give them time to twist his thoughts into something they’re not. 

A city built of brick and stone is what Donghyuck imagines against the blank backdrop of his mind. A sun that casts warm shadows over the cobbled streets that grow darker as night approaches. The screaming of seagulls, the taste of salt on the tip of his tongue, the coldness of stone under his bare feet, the warmth of blood dripping down his upper lip and staining his teeth.

“Again!” A voice cuts through Donghyuck’s muddled thoughts, sharp and stale as a knife, burned in his brain too permanently for Donghyuck to ever forget, and everything comes into focus so quickly when he opens his eyes, that his knees nearly give out under the added weight to his heart.

It’s dark - the cellar - the only light coming from the torches lit ahead where the stairs lead upwards. Too many pairs of eyes stare at him with such intensity, Donghyuck feels their gazes prodding at every inch of exposed skin, at the wrists raw under the heavy chains and knees scaped bloody against the rough stone floor.

“Again!” He orders, the man in the middle of the crowd, voice loud enough for Donghyuck to fear, but calm enough to not be seen as losing his temper.

_ You’re not there anymore, _ his mind sings quietly against the sound of blood rushing through his ears, louder than his heart hammering in his chest, than his shallow breathing in the tiny cell.

A choked gasp slips past his lips. He can’t cry. He  _ won’t _ cry. Not when the chains lock tighter around his wrists, not when the figure steps forward to wrap a hand around his throat and squeeze tight enough for Donghyuck to consider praying to the Gods for a safe space at their side, not when the blood from his nose pools on his tongue and makes it hard for him to swallow. Not when this first began, not whenever it’s about to end, Donghyuck is never giving them the satisfaction of seeing him break. 

The man leans in close to his face and Donghyuck turns his head to the side instinctively.  _ Not here _ , he pleads to no one in particular,  _ not now _ .

But the man lets his lips graze the shell of Donghyuck’s ear as he loosens his grip on Donghyuck’s throat, allowing in enough air for him to not die. Not now, not like this, at least. “You do not want to embarrass me in front of these people.” He whispers and draws back slowly, hand moving away from Donghyuck’s throat to rest on his cheek. He smiles then, one of those smiles that have his teeth flashing and his eyebrows rising, eyes dark and piercing, and Donghyuck is once again reminded that he’s no one but what his Master makes him out to be. 

_ This isn’t real. _

“Make me proud, little wolf.” He says.

_ Oh, but this is all there is. _

Donghyuck squeezes his eyes shut and hears his Masters' steps receding faintly as the ringing in his ears gets louder.

Donghyuck thinks of  _ him _ then, in that fleeting moment - of dark hair and bright laughter, of warm hands and kind eyes, of something he used to have and never will again.

It’s gone a breath later though, as the air grows thicker and Donghyuck reaches out with his hand to pull apart something that’s not there. But it is. Maybe not for the magisters watching, maybe not for his Master, but it’s there for Donghyuck to see behind closed eyelids and to feel brushing against his fingertips - the seams of another world, forced to the brink of tearing just because Donghyuck wills it to. 

“Maker watch over me,” he whispers in a voice barely audible and lets the veil rip open with a loud screech.

The sight of the beast when Donghyuck opens his eyes is something he knows will haunt him forever. 

It’s covered in tattered robes, a hood drawn over its head, casting a dark shadow over its face with a mouth wide enough to fit three rows of teeth, and two tiny eyes on opposite sides of its head that stare at Donghyuck like they see right through him and know the weight of what he had just done. 

The mouth shut before rips wide open now and the demon lets out a noise unlike anything Donghyuck had heard before, and it fills him with such terror that would never compare to the sound of a whip against stone before it landed on his back, nor the silent cries of slaves as they were ordered to their Master’s bedroom, nor the boy’s raw scream as he slumped to the ground with magic piercing his heart.

And it’s coming towards him, closer and closer, long feet dragging across stone, closer and closer till Donghyuck can smell it, and touch it, and feel it, and  _ know _ that after all he’s done, he deserves to die like this.

He doesn’t get to though, or maybe he does - it’s always impossible to tell here. Donghyuck blinks and what greets him is the embrace of nothing at all. Not death, not life. Maybe something in between. Maybe something completely and utterly different, something stretched beyond the definition of words and the understanding of a mortal mind. 

Nothing.

❂

Donghyuck’s gently shaken awake, resurrected from the dead by the hand of a skilled necromancer maybe minutes, maybe hours later - impossible to tell, for time does not exist in a place like this. 

Except it’s not a necromancer he sees upon opening his eyes, not Renjun staring down at him, but the warm gaze of the friendly mage he came to see in the depths of the emerald forest. 

“How are you feeling?” Taeil asks, voice so ever gentle, helps Donghyuck rise till his back is pressed against the wall of the tiny hut tucked away behind bushes and trees, someplace safe where nothing besides them exists.

“How long was I asleep for?” Donghyuck asks instead of replying because the answer remains something neither of them wants to hear. 

“A half of an hour at best,” Taeil moves to sit on the bed, hands tucked neatly in his lap, eyes ever so inquiring. Donghyuck might not speak his mind, but Taeil knows it well enough anyway. “The sun set while you were sleeping. You might have to wait until morning to hunt.”

“I see well enough in the moonlight.” Donghyuck clears his throat and moves to sit beside Taeil, shoulders bumping together, feet touching the ground. “I couldn’t do it.”

What awaits both of them is silence.

It’s to be expected. Donghyuck doesn’t mind it, doesn’t care enough to mind it, and rises to his feet in one fluid motion, back twisting with a loud crack. 

Taeil thinks before he speaks, always, but it’s getting harder by each visit to come up with words that Donghyuck hasn’t already heard flooding past his lips before. Donghyuck knows this, knows that it’s his fault, not Taeil’s because no matter the hours of schooling or the number of sacred texts he reads out to Donghyuck, he’s learned to live with the fact that he’s not meant for this. 

The Dalish savior, the all-powerful mage with such a rare gift it deserves to be polished by the best of scholars, envied by the most powerful of magisters, leaving all of Tevinter in stunned silence if word were ever to come out. The son of Andraste sent from the Golden city itself to aid the people in need and bring salvation to those who deserve it. 

All these things they so desperately want him to be,  _ need _ him to be, remain the same things he could be not.

Donghyuck slings the quiver over his shoulder and grabs the bow set neatly on the chair by the door.

“I’ll be back with something for each of us.” He says and pushes the door open to set foot into the night.

Taeil doesn’t protest, knows better than to force Donghyuck to stay, even if they really should talk things over and come to a solution that won’t have Donghyuck riding out to the middle of nowhere every few months only to return to the others with nothing but disappointment heavy in his heart. 

Donghyuck huffs through his mouth and watches the air turn silver. 

It’s a clear sky out tonight, the moon shining down on the world brightly, the stars guiding his way. The air’s quite warm, though, despite the warm season slowly coming to an end with the changing of leaves and harsh winds right on its heels. 

He doesn’t have to go far, just a stretch of land through the forest where the tree trunks grow wider and the branches reach out to the very edge of the sky, leaves casting shadows on the emerald ground and making the moonlight appear as if the air had spun silver around itself in long ribbons.

Donghyuck crouches behind a berry bush, the moss soft under his feet and the palm of his hand where he rests it for balance. 

Not a lot of people choose this place as somewhere safe to lay the foundations of both a home and a family. Too little civilization besides the different Dalish clans scattered around the premises of the Emerald Graves like stray leaves scattered in the wind - too far from one another to remember coming from the same tree, trying to grow new roots in the ground by themselves, only to get swept away once another breeze comes along.

But it’s quiet here.

Donghyuck likes that.

Not just during the night when the moonlight dips the world in liquid silver and all life stays still, but during the day, too; when the leaves rustle in the soft wind and fallen branches snap under the feet of stray animals. When the sound of an arrow hitting its target can be heard from where it was shot from, and when the sunlight burns the tips of his ears and for a moment he forgets of another world existing outside the tall trees and deep greens of the forest. 

It feels good then, to feel like he doesn’t exist.

Even if it never lasts. 

But then again, nothing caught in Donghyuck’s orbit ever does.

Something rustles to his left, and Donghyuck’s quick to retrieve an arrow from his back and place it on the string of his bow, peeking through the leaves to spot the poor creature he’ll have burning above a fire before the sun rises and it gets to see another day.

It’s a stag, treading through the cluster of vines in a clumsy manner. Must be quite young then, big brown eyes and steady breaths coming out in white puffs as it stops to look around like this part of the forest strikes no memory in its foreign mind. 

It must be scared, lost in an unfamiliar place such as this one; how Donghyuck feels whenever he walks the fade in his dreams, always someone somewhere watching him like a rat making its way through a maze only for a trap to slam down at the end. 

The stag turns its head, and for a split second their gazes meet. 

Its eyes are dark and round and the sight fills Donghyuck with such a melancholic sense of deja vu that the next breath he lets past his lips comes out stuttering. 

Donghyuck draws back the bowstring.

This world has no place for creatures of such gentle nature.

So he shoots.

❂

Yangyang comes for him the next day along with the sun rising to its highest point in the sky. 

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow at the absence of another rider beside him, white horse, dark hair, sparkling eyes, and careful words.

“Dejun stayed back to help with the new lead.” Yangyang scrunches his nose at the crossed arms over Donghyuck’s chest and peels them back to wrap him in a warm embrace. 

Yangyang smells of freshly cut grass and sweat from riding out in the blazing sun for what must have been at least two days. Why he never chooses to shift when coming to escort him, Donghyuck will never understand, but Yangyang’s never been keen on making him.

“Ready to take down the big bad templars, I hope?” He speaks with a smile in his voice and pulls away after a couple of pats on the back. 

He doesn’t mean it in a taunting way, Donghyuck knows, and yet, he can’t help the way his heart leaps in his chest and his breath stutters in his throat, because eventually, he  _ will  _ let them all down.

Taeil clears his throat beside them and Donghyuck could never put into words how grateful he is to have a mentor like this who he’s allowed to call his friend. 

“About to leave without saying goodbye?” 

Donghyuck laughs at the forced downturn of his eyebrows and the pout of his bottom lip and lets himself once again be wrapped in an embrace he never wants to let go of.

Neither Taeil nor this place tucked away like a stray hair behind an ear for no one to ever see and no one to ever know about. Like a secret whispered when the candles have burnt out and limbs stray between silk sheets when soft giggles slip past lips after the words do. Like a promise and a curse at the same time; to fill a bubble up with the same hands that let it burst.

“I’ll see you when fall comes,” Donghyuck says and hates the way his voice wavers.

“Of course.” Taeil runs a hand through Donghyuck’s hair and slowly lets him go. “You’re welcome to bring a friend if you please.”

No one in the world would Donghyuck have see him the way he’s forced to be here. 

“I’ll think about it.” He says instead.

They stow the little baggage Donghyuck had taken with him on his horse, and before Donghyuck knows it, they’re saddled up and Taeil’s waving them goodbye as the forest ahead of them melts into an emerald blur, and Taeil’s body becomes a mere dot in the distance - a star in the sky as morning comes, whisked away by the sunlight.

  
  


❂

They don’t talk much on their ride back. 

Not that Yangyang doesn’t want to - if anything he probably has to bite his tongue to stop his questions from spilling out - but because he knows better than to prod. It’s a concept he would never understand despite lyrium coursing through both their veins. Children of the Maker, both blessed with a curse to set foot on this land as Gods only to be beaten down with no rest until they’re six feet under. 

“Rest now and then keep going?” Yangyang breaks the silence when they’ve nearly chased the sun off the sky and the world’s engulfed in liquid gold.

Donghyuck nods wordlessly and pulls on the reins of his horse to make it halt to a stop because he hasn’t slept properly for two nights in a row, consciousness always too busy running around the premises of his mind before his limbs manage to catch up. Donghyuck wishes for a night where he dreams of what he wants. 

Donghyuck searches for plywood and Yangyang sets up the tent while there’s still enough sunlight for him to see what he’s doing. 

“I have leftover nug meat in my bag if you don’t want to bother hunting.” Yangyang sighs and gestures loosely towards where Donghyuck’s assembling tiny branches into a pile.

“ _ Why? _ Because you’re afraid the Dread Wolf might come for me when I’m alone?”

Donghyuck flinches inwardly at the sudden rise in his voice, and Yangyang blinks up at him from where he’s sitting, back pressed against a tree covered in dark moss.

“Because I know you must be tired since you never sleep well when you’re away.” He says simply, and Donghyuck wants to dig a hole for himself because he’s so stupid and it’s only a matter of time before they find someone better at what he does and someone who never complains, and someone who’s enough to fill the empty spaces Donghyuck never managed to.

“Sit. I’ll cook for us.” Yangyang tells him and it’s not quite an order, because who is Yangyang to order him around, but Donghyuck treats it as one anyway. 

He watches as Yangyang crouches by the pile of wood Donghyuck had gathered, and inspects it with careful eyes. Donghyuck doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for, but then Yangyang’s picking out one stick from the pile and setting it aside, taking a deep breath and finally letting sparks fly from his fingertips, dancing briefly in the air before landing on the wood, flames coming to life.

He sits down by the fire to unwrap the meat from some leather straps with delicate fingers, sticking the pieces on the one wooden branch damp enough to not catch fire. 

Donghyuck scoots closer to feel the warmth of the flames and to let Yangyang know he never means the words he says.

Once again they don’t speak, and it’s a pattern beginning to form, showing clearly, that things are good as long as Donghyuck keeps his mouth shut.

Yangyang turns the meat from one side to the other, so the taste of coal does not plague it, and Donghyuck punches holes in the ground with the dagger at his belt.

The sun has completely disappeared now, some remaining light coloring the very edge of the line that splits the world in half, but otherwise, just darkness speckled with stars. 

They eat in silence, too. The occasional hum or a crackle of flame filling the air around them, but disappearing as quickly as it had come. 

They lay in silence when the meat is finished and the fire has been put out by the delicate hands of a mage, and then a rough heel of a boot just in case. The tent is a small one, meant for one person, maybe another half squeezed somewhere in between a tangle of limbs, but never for too long. It’s not the ideal way to fall asleep for Donghyuck who’s gotten used to the lack of touch instead of the presence of it, with Yangyang’s back pressed so closely against his that Donghyuck can feel the outline of his spine through his linen shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whispers with his lips grazing the soft fur wrapped around them both like a warm embrace, one Donghyuck doesn’t mind. 

He’s not even sure if Yangyang’s awake, not sure how much time has passed since they bid their silent goodnights.

But then the other man speaks, voice so unusually quiet that Donghyuck wonders, without seeing his face, if it’s really him. “It’s okay,” Yangyang says in a way that makes Donghyuck believe him, or at least want to. “I wish things were different, I really do.”

_ Me too, _ Donghyuck wants to say but can’t get the words out, because he knows they won’t be true. Whatever life Donghyuck has now, whatever life he will have in the future, until all the time in the world reaches the bottom of the hourglass, Donghyuck would live over and over again only if it meant never having to return to the life he had before, to who he was before.

He doesn’t say this out loud, never does, because no one would understand, and for once, Donghyuck’s grateful for that. 

When Donghyuck closes his eyes, he dreams of white snow and of dark hair tousled in the wind; of drawing back his bow with fingers numb from the cold and nose red against the backdrop of all-white. 

_ You’re amazing _ , the boy says when the arrow pierces the ram right through its eye.

_ Only when I’m with you _ , Donghyuck thinks but doesn’t say, because he has a way of making things come undone with a wrong flick of the tongue.

Donghyuck dreams of home.

❂

They ride the entire day and the following night until the sun peeks through the trees just enough so they don’t have to strain their eyes to see anymore. They keep riding until the deep forest clears and the damp grass makes way for a path wide enough for two riders to fit on, side by side, until sounds of distant screaming fill the air and they halt to a stop with the suddenly acquired feeling of dread. 

“Wait here,” Yangyang tells him, and it’s an order this time, off his horse in one swift motion and up in the air in the shape of a raven in the next. 

Donghyuck decides to obey because he still feels guilty about the day before and because his quiver holds too little arrows for him to be considered a serious threat to anyone but himself, and the staff at his back serves a purpose of nothing more than a symbol of who he should be.

Yangyang’s quick when it comes to things like this. Moves swiftly, delivers words blunt and simple - it’s easier this way, with him, because for once Donghyuck can pretend to feel like he’s free again.

But the screaming continues, not coming closer, but not retreating either, still no sign of Yangyang, and it takes Donghyuck exactly five seconds to reconsider the pros and cons before he’s ditching his horse to run the rest of the way, because whatever the fuck is happening, Donghyuck isn’t going to let it turn to the worse. 

The fortress comes into view and for a fleeting moment Donghyuck wonders if maybe he should’ve stayed back and waited like a good little elven boy who makes his masters proud, but then there’s a hand grabbing him by the wrist and before the better part of his brain catches up, there’s a flash of white and Donghyuck’s already pressed against a wall with hard stone digging into his back and Renjun’s eyes piercing through him like daggers.

“I told you fade stepping makes me nauseous.” Donghyuck pushes the older boy away, proximity way too close for his liking even if it’s just Renjun.

“You’re insane, Donghyuck. I’ll kill you myself before a templar manages to split your skull open with a sword.” 

There’s fighting just behind this wall, Donghyuck can hear it, can feel the air tickle at his fingertips as the veil grows thinner with every slash of blade and drop of blood spilled, and yet, Renjun doesn’t raise his voice, but Donghyuck knows better than to think he doesn’t mean what he says.

Donghyuck can’t help his gaze falling to the batch of arrows Renjun has clutched in his fist at his side, and when Donghyuck raises his head for their eyes to meet, Renjun looks at him like he expects only one answer to a question neither of them has asked yet.

“Take out the archers on top of the walls and I’ll consider bringing you back after you’re killed.”

Donghyuck smiles despite himself and takes the arrows from Renjun’s extended hand. “Too bad I won’t die then.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Renjun says and in a flash of white, he is gone. 

Donghyuck moves along the back wall of the fortress, hand dragging over the stone to steady himself until he reaches the spot where the vines grow just a bit too thick and a bit too long and hold up the weight of a boy with a bow in his hand and a staff at his back a bit too well. 

The stone digs painfully into his palms when he reaches the top, and Donghyuck slings the bow over his shoulder for better leverage, praying to the Maker that no sword comes slashing towards him and sending his body plummeting down from a height barely large enough to kill him, but quite enough to break a bone or two he’d rather keep intact.

Luckily, the Maker doesn’t hate him as much as Donghyuck had thought, because he pulls himself up over the ledge with just enough time to notice the templar archer two feet to his left with his bow drawn and eyes alarmed as the upper side of his body twists towards Donghyuck and his fingers send the arrow flying.

Donghyuck manages to dodge it, of course he does, because the templars have always had a stupid knack for trying to aim straight for the head. 

The man’s quick on his feet, Donghyuck will give him that, stance now fully turned towards him and a new arrow in the midsts of being pulled taut; but Donghyuck has his staff pulled from where it had been resting neglected at his back, the sharp end of it slashing through the air in one swift motion, cutting the man’s throat open, weapons dropping and trembling hands coming up to cover the wound, wide eyes staring up at Donghyuck as he surges forward and pushes the body over the ledge. 

He absentmindedly feels the crack of bones rather than hears it, the clutter of heavy armor muffling the disgusting sound before it manages to reach Donghyuck’s ears. 

The staff he lets clatter on the stone ground next, bow in hand and arrow drawn so tight his muscles ache, Donghyuck sends it flying towards the templar archer on the opposite wall, a mirror image that strikes him as something once familiar; but whatever the feeling is, it fades along with the body that hits the floor with a clatter of a warrior’s armor rather than a soft thud of a wild animal in the depths of an emerald forest somewhere quiet and somewhere beautiful.

Donghyuck picks another arrow from his quiver. 

There are not many archers perched up on the walls, only three more, Donghyuck notes as another one of his arrows finds its purchase in the back of a templar’s knee, and upon the stretch of time coming to a halt when a hand comes down to pull the arrow from the wound gushing blood, Donghyuck sends another arrow piercing the stretch of skin exposed at the back of the neck. 

They’re easy targets, just stupid men who set foot on the premises of a battle not because they have freedom to fight for, but because they feel the need to take it away from someone else. They fight like they have homes to return to, people to meet once this is all over, bellies to fill, and bodies to warm by a fire. Like the fight ends when they lower their swords and go to sleep to live another day.

Donghyuck pulls back the bowstring until it’s taut enough to feel like it’s about to snap, and shoots the other archer right through the tiny hole in his helmet meant for him to see through.

Donghyuck hears the scream even over the clash of metal and the buzz of magic under their feet, the man’s hands coming up to his face, not daring to touch, not knowing what to do, clumsy steps towards some sort of solace send him tripping over the ledge and hitting the ground right where a different templar slices open the throat of a mage Donghyuck didn’t know well enough to pray for as her body slumps to the ground.

The templar’s helmet has been thrown to the side, probably for the favor of seeing his opponent in clear sight, paid with the price of having the most vulnerable part of his body exposed for Donghyuck to mark with an arrow tainted red with blood.

He draws back the string and aims for the silver expanse of skin at the side of the templar’s neck where he’s staring down at the two bodies before him, soaked in blood, one marked by a red-tailed arrow in the eye, and then suddenly, slowly, he’s turning his head to the side and to the sky, and their gazes meet.

Donghyuck’s heart stills and his hands shake and his vision blurs until whatever target he had before vanishes, clear of his mark.

A pale face stares up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, sword arm limp and shaking at his side.

Donghyuck blinks then, to clear his vision.

Sees snow up to his knees and a ram lying dead under a tree with an arrow sticking out of its eye, sees wide brown eyes watching him with a gaze warm enough to melt the ice forming at his fingertips, and sees pink lips forming words of soft praise and pure kindness. 

Donghyuck sees him.

He blinks his eyes open and he’s still there, drenched in sweat and covered in blood and dirt, body worn out from being strung so tight.

Donghyuck sees Mark.

Mark sees him too.

And then he sees something else as his eyes move to the space next to Donghyuck’s head, his name sounding past his lips, and Donghyuck’s too late to turn around and spot whatever had appeared behind him, because heavy hands are grabbing him by the shoulders and in one swift motion his body’s pushed over the edge, and whatever happens next, Donghyuck doesn’t know of, because the air gets knocked out from his lungs and his vision turns to black as nothing awaits him once again.

Nothing at all.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/HILYUC) for your questions or a [twitter](https://twitter.com/HILYUC) if you wanna be updated on my writing process or just talk


	2. there, he dwelled, waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this other introductory chapter from Mark's POV before we delve into the plot in the next chapter

Mark halts awake by the sound of the dungeon door creaking open and slamming shut twice as loud, light footsteps hitting the stone floor in an echo that jumps from one wall to another in an almost taunting manner, sound growing louder as the mage approaches. At least he assumes it’s a mage.

He’s been here for a day, maybe less, maybe more, it’s hard to tell - since the back of his head was hit with such force Mark swears he could feel his skull crack before his vision turned black.

He had woken up once before, with panic crawling its way up his throat in the form of bile and hands reaching out to grasp at whatever they could find. There was a flash of silver at the corner of his eye and Mark parted his lips to sound out the familiarity of a name before he was pulled under again, by exhaustion or by magic, he could not tell.

Mark grabs onto one of the metal bars of the cell and pulls his body upright in a pathetic attempt to preserve some amount of his templar dignity. But what templar could he possibly be without his armor and a sword at his side, locked up underground like some animal for the mages to push and prod at however they please.

“Quite a nice change of scenery, don’t you think?” The mage raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to the side when he comes to a halt in the middle of the room. Mark hates how smug he looks.

“How is Donghyuck?” He asks instead.

The mage doesn’t answer, not that Mark expected him to, and instead murmurs something under his breath that must be of different tongue because the words strike no memory in Mark’s brain. 

He moves towards the wall farthest from Mark’s cell and drags over a chair with a loud enough screech to make Mark’s bones rattle under his skin, stopping when it’s right where he had been standing before, right opposite Mark.

“Y’know, that’s what I’m here about actually.” The mage says nonchalantly and sits down, back sliding down the chair until he’s half laying on it, posture relaxed but eyes still piercing. “How exactly do you know Donghyuck?”

Mark contemplates not replying; he got the answer to his question anyways - Donghyuck’s okay, or if not okay, alive at least, because they wouldn’t send someone down here to ask about his relationship with a supposedly dead mage.

“Do you think I could talk to him?” Mark asks instead of answering, ever so polite, because even if the man in front of him makes his jaw clench and the blood inside his veins boil, and be deserving of none of the respect Mark would be willing to give if it were ever asked of him, his mother raised him to know better.

The wall Mark’s leaning against is cold and slightly wet, and he tries his best to appear like someone worth looking at. But his stomach’s sprouting needles from the lack of food, and every inch of muscle in his limbs aches both from yesterday’s battle and from the sleep he spent desperately trying to grab for the entirety of last night to no avail.

The man in front of him clears his throat and leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees and his shirt hangs low enough to expose his chest. The sapphire in his left ear glows an ocean blue under the dim torch light.

“Are you another one of the rendezvous he left in the middle of the night? Is that it?” He asks, looking Mark up and down as if that would give him an answer. 

Mark hates the scrutiny of the man’s gaze, senses it reach somewhere deep within him where no one should be able to see, and it feels as if he’s slowly being beaten into the ground with the hilt of a sword, again and again and again until there’s nothing but dirt around him and the heavy lid of a casket slamming shut. 

“Look, I know how Donghyuck can get when he’s...” the man gestures around the air as if he’s trying to conjure the right words at the tips of his fingers, “ _ worked up _ … But I assure you that he rarely means the things he says, and I’m sparing you the trouble when I say that he neither remembers your name nor your face nor has any plans on seeing you again.”

The corners of Mark’s lips twitch upwards despite himself, because all of the time Mark had spent on his knees praying to the Maker for Donghyuck not to be someplace unknown with his gut torn open and eyes unblinking, Donghyuck had been going around and laying with other people.

Mark has no answer to give, but then again, the mage never explicitly asked a question.

For his own sake, Mark knows he’s never lain with Donghyuck, nor ever will he. Not when they were younger and dancing around one another like snow against flame, not now when Mark had nearly died by the same hand that used to hold his on the nights when the nightmares wouldn’t stop.

The man keeps looking at him, eyes almost unblinking like if he tries hard enough he will tap into a corner of Mark’s mind and push his thoughts past his lips, spilling like a river running.

“You don’t seem too keen on getting out of here.” The mage sighs like it’s disappointing for him to say. “I suppose the rumors are true - the templar order treats its knights the same way it does its mages.”

“You keep many people locked up here?”

The mage smiles at his words, eyes gleaming at the sound of Mark’s voice, “you didn’t deny my claim.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“From time to time.” He says.

“And where do all of them go afterward?” 

“Depends,” he shrugs and the chair creaks under his weight, “some of them decide they’d rather die than be of help to a mage, and some of them realize their lives are defined by more than just how many people die by their sword.”

“So you kill the ones that are of no use to you.”

“Isn’t that what the Maker does as well? Kills the ones He decides won’t bring glory to His name?”

Mark stays silent at that. Deems it of no importance to answer to someone who doubts the God he believes in. 

“Look,” the man sighs, standing up in one swift motion, and Mark already dreads the silence that will swallow him whole once he’s left alone, “we’re not your enemy here, despite what you might have been taught to believe. If you’re willing to help us, we’re willing to do the same.”

Oh, but it’s not what Mark was taught in the order when he had to learn the Chant of Light by heart, or when he had to pledge his whole life and purpose to the order - it’s what he knows to be true like it’s the word of the Maker Himself.

“I’ll leave you to think about it,” the mage says with a click of his tongue, “we don’t want to keep you here either, y’know,” and he leaves with a click of his boots.

Once the door slams shut, Mark slides down against the wall and onto the floor with a heavy thud. Like his heart fell down to the pit of his stomach along with his bones hitting the ground. 

He’s been through worse, spent more days with no food and more nights with no sleep. In worse places, too. Surely, this doesn’t compare to the solace of his quarters back in the heart of Orlais or even the comfort of the tent he shared with another soldier in the temporary camp they had set here in the Emerald Graves, but it keeps a roof over his head and provides him with some sort of remnants of warmth. 

Mark wouldn’t be of much use to them even if he decided to switch sides. He’s no templar of a high rank, he has no insider knowledge, the only thing keeping him alive all these years being the lessons his father had taught him when he had decided Mark will have to face the world alone one day. Back home he was nobility, a future leader, a to-be king- training with the best swordsmen in Thedas, wielding only the sharpest blades, walking under the seal of a lion that brought as much glory as it did ruin. Here he’s nothing more but another blade sent out to fight in the field of battle so the men on the top don’t have to get their hands stained with blood.

Mark stares at the stones stacked neatly on top of each other in the wall opposite him and wonders if there’s anyone here besides him, and if so, how long has it been since they have seen daylight with their eyes open instead of closed. He contemplates calling out to see if anyone would answer, but decides against it, because if there truly are people guarding the door on the other side like there usually are, Mark doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of hearing him beginning to break.

So he thinks about Donghyuck. 

Not the Donghyuck he played around the gardens with when the snow finally melted and gave way for the first flowers to bloom, but the Donghyuck standing on top of a tower built of stone with his bow drawn and his eyes looking down at Mark like he, both, felt a pang of familiarity somewhere deep in his gut, and like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him with a sword dipped in blood.

Mark wishes he hadn’t seen him. Wishes Donghyuck had been somewhere else, anywhere but here, so Mark could sit in this cellar with the hunger and thirst tearing his gut open and the silence driving him mad without feeling like he was leaving someone behind.

At some point sleep overtakes him - a soft tug at first and then a harsh pull dragging him under. 

He doesn’t dream, doesn’t get the chance to let his thoughts form images behind closed eyelids, because they’re fluttering open as quickly as they had dropped shut and it’s a seemingly never-ending cycle that Mark wishes he could break if only his body wasn’t begging him to rest. 

He can feel his limbs twitch in the state between awake and asleep, curling in on himself like that would make the pain subside and him to disappear. 

Somewhere between the time that’s managed to stretch into infinity, he falls into a hazy dream - an image of a woman with long hair falling past her shoulders like waves in the deepest parts of the sea, and she’s reaching out to him with gentle hands and pulling him into an embrace that feels like, both, a promise and an apology.  _ My brave little lionheart _ , she murmurs into his hair and soothes the crown of his head with a kiss,  _ you’ll do great things one day. _

_ But I want you to stay here, mama, _ he tells her softly, hands moving to clutch at the cloak draped over her shoulders, shielding her from view and blending her into the night.

_ I will _ , she tells him and presses a hand to his chest where his heart beats for the both of them, but he’s just a little boy, he doesn’t understand - not yet, not ever, at least not quite the way she wanted him to.

_ You won’t. Don’t lie, mama, please just stay with me _ .

❂

His eyes flutter open and solace fades away along with the sleep he blinks away from his eyes.

“Oh, did I wake you?” An unfamiliar voice sounds from above him, and Mark cranes his neck up to see another one of the mages standing in the dim light, hands holding something in front of him Mark can’t quite make out and can’t find it in himself to bother to.

Mark doesn’t spare him with an answer, doesn’t even bother standing up, knows his legs won’t be able to handle the weight.

There’s shuffling above him and the smell of freshly baked bread hits his nose with such intensity that his stomach lurches painfully inside him.

“I apologize that it has to be this way,” the mage speaks in such a soft voice that it’s almost calming, settling on his knees by Mark’s cell with a tray of food placed neatly in his lap, “Yangyang meant what he said about us helping you, truly, we’ll take good care of you if you let us.” 

Mark parts his lips to say the mage can leave because he would rather let his stomach eat itself from inside out, but his mouth is perched dry and the breaths halfway up his throat feel almost painful. When he darts his tongue out to lick at his chapped lips, Mark finds that it does little to help.

What a pathetic way for his life to end - in some cellar in the middle of nowhere with his brothers and sisters of the order dead above ground and him soon to join. 

“You must be starving... thirsty, too.” The mage says and places the tray of food on the ground with a clank that rings in Mark’s ears because the noise is suddenly too loud and the light is suddenly too bright and the stone digs into his side so harshly he nearly cries out. He doesn’t though, and even if he wanted to, there wouldn’t be any tears to spill.

“You don’t have to worry, the food’s not poisoned.” The mage manages a breathy laugh, but it dies in his throat when he realizes Mark’s not moving a muscle.

He sighs and Mark closes his eyes. 

“I’m a healer, Mark, I’m here to help you.” 

Mark’s eyelashes flutter at the mention of his name, but his eyelids don’t lift. Donghyuck must have let them know, and Mark absentmindedly wonders what else he told them that could be of such huge importance that would forbid him from wanting to set foot on the stairs leading down to the dungeon.

“I don’t need your help,” Mark says in a voice so quiet it’s barely audible, eyes closed, sound swallowed by stone, and his throat scratches enough to make him wince, but now they know at least - that if Mark is to die, it will be by no one else's judgment but the Maker’s.

“Ever so stubborn - your kind.” The mage sighs and stands up, robes shuffling against the stone floor. He’s silent as he walks towards the large wooden door Mark knows separates him from the rest of the world, from the mages, from the templars, from Donghyuck.

“The porridge tastes best when it’s warm.” He says and when Mark opens his eyes, he’s gone.

He stares ahead, at nothing in particular, not that there's anything for him to see but stone and metal.

After a while, his ears pick up on the sound of waterdrops hitting gravel somewhere farther away from where he lay, but still near enough to have his fingers twitching towards the tray sitting untouched on the opposite side of the bars. It must be raining outside, heavy rain at that, if the water has managed to seep through the floors built where the forest ground soaks up the raindrops with thirst akin to a sailor with a parched tongue.

The sound fades away slowly, steady rhythm of droplets splattering against stone making his eyelids droop until they’re resting heavily over his eyes, food growing cold where it sits neglected on the ground just an arm’s length away if only Mark were to reach for it.

He doesn’t dream of anything this time. The image behind closed eyelids remains painted a dark black, and Mark prefers for it to stay that way because it hurts to have his thoughts take the form of what he used to have, only to disappear in a bitter reminder that it’s never to be his again.

❂

Sometime later, mayhaps long after or mayhaps near the end of time, Mark twitches awake in deep darkness, in cold sweat, the flame on the torch gone out and faintly wonders if anyone will pay him enough mind to come set fire to it again. His stomach twists on itself like it’s shrinking in size, and every breath he takes seems to fill up his lungs only halfway, every exhale rattling his bones.

His insides pang with pain to rival that of a sword tearing open his gut and Mark’s quick to rise on his elbow to retch the contents of his stomach onto the stone. 

His arm shakes under his weight and his head spins at the sudden movement, and Mark lets his body hit the ground with a soft thud, rolling on his back with his hands resting on his chest, catching his breath, even if it’s shallow and ragged. 

With the remaining strength, Mark twists his body to face the wall so the smell of vomit isn’t as protruding, and hopes the Maker welcomes him at His side when the time finally comes.

❂

He shudders awake again, not remembering falling asleep, to the sound of whispers. Mark doesn’t pay them much mind, has heard the tales of spirits murmuring in your ear when your time runs out and the veil grows thinner around you, the fade ready to welcome you with open arms. 

A crackle of fire and the darkness behind his eyes grows just a little bit lighter. The whispers subside, and Mark wonders if maybe this is finally the end, the beginning of something new, something else.

Shuffling of feet and the air around him flutters, a tinge of herb suddenly hitting his nose and soothing the path down his throat as if leaving blossoms in its wake. The realization is slow to settle in his brain, but when it does, it’s too late to do anything, because the smell grows stronger and the air crackles with the disturbance of magic, and before he knows it, Mark’s pulled under the heavy weight of sleep once again.

❂

White.

Behind their bodies. Ahead of their gazes. Under their feet. Above their heads.

Snow falling in clumps, sticking to his lashes, making it hard to see.

_ Mommy, how much longer? _ Voice small, choked. From the cold, from the crying, from the screaming.

_ Hold on, Minhyungie, just a little bit further. _

Cold.

Air crisp. Ground frozen. Wind restless.

He’s terrified, legs moving in muscle memory.

_ We’re nearly there, my love. _ Breathless. Hopeless. _ It’s all going to be over soon. _

A lie.

He doesn’t know that. Keeps running.

Shouts from behind them.

Red.

Dagger glowing silver. Blood dripping down her arm. Snow tainted red.

_ Go, my love. I’ll catch up. _

A lie.

He doesn’t know that. Keeps running.

Shouts from behind him.

A man in front of him.

Blade in his hand. Blade against the moonlight. Blade through his chest.

Pain.

No screams. No tears. No prayers. No use for any of them.

_ It’s all his fault... _

Blood bubbling up his throat. Dripping past his lips. Soaking through his shirt. 

_ It’s all Donghyuck’s fault... _

Ground against his knees. Hands clawing at his throat. Can’t breathe. Can’t move.

He’s going to die.

❂

When he’s startled awake, it’s by the sound of metal clanging against metal.

Mark forces his eyes open despite the heaviness of his eyelids, finds that the first conscious breath he takes is long and deep, and expands his chest until his ribs feel like they’re going to snap under the pressure. Mark shuffles his body into a sitting position, head heavy where it rests against the cool stone, but the stinging pain has subsided, instead replaced with a dull ache in the back of his skull as if buried under a pile of cotton, muffled but making itself known still. 

The annoying sound halts and Mark turns his head to the side.

There’s the same chair in the middle of the room once again, except instead of a person sitting on it like the first time someone had come to visit him, there’s a body behind it, frame tall and lithe, sharp ears peeking out from hair the shade of liquid moonlight, brown eyes staring down at Mark, a batch of keys hanging loosely from the very tips of curved fingers.

“It’s funny how the only time they let me make a choice on my own is when they don’t know what to do themselves,” Donghyuck says with his lips curled upwards, though his gaze stays at where Mark’s sitting against the wall, staring, but not quite looking, and the suddenty of it all - seeing him, hearing him, having him close enough that if Mark were to reach out and try his hardest, he could let their hands brush and their fingers intertwine - it leaves Mark breathless.

“They said it’s my judgment whether to let you go or not, since you’re not of much help yourself.” He looks down at the keys in his hands like he himself can’t quite believe they’re real; like Mark can’t believe  _ he _ is.

“I thought you were dead.” Mark rasps, voice hoarse from not being used for days, from not being used in the vicinity of Donghyuck’s presence for years. 

“A fall from that height isn’t enough to kill you.”

Mark wants to ask him how he knows.

“Kun’s a great healer. Two days and I’m up walking like nothing happened.” Donghyuck sighs as he speaks, making him sound out of breath like he’s forgotten how to speak when it’s with Mark. He sounds distant. Present in body, but mind elsewhere. 

Mark shakes his head, not minding the way it hurts at the motion. “I mean before. When I came looking for you at the Circle and you weren’t there - I thought you were dead.”

Something in Donghyuck’s expression changes so suddenly, the air around them seems to shift along with him, tingling at Mark’s fingertips, and Mark wishes they were still kids running around the castle’s corridors and every movement of Donghyuck’s would strike a memory in Mark’s mind to make him feel at ease.

“I thought you were dead too, you know. I wanted you to be.” He says and the tone of his voice stirs awake something primal inside of Mark, something hot and red, and Mark has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from asking Donghyuck to take back his words. “But then here you are, a templar or all things - Mark of House Valmont sent by the Gods to mock me.”

“I came looking for you because I wanted to protect you.” Mark winces as he forces his body to stand because he wants,  _ needs  _ Donghyuck to look at him, to see him properly, to know Mark’s here because there’s no one else in the world left for him.

Donghyuck lets out a laugh, low in his throat and bitter-sounding even to Mark’s own ears. 

“Protect me from what, Mark?” Donghyuck’s angry, truly angry, and Mark hates that he doesn’t understand why. “What has your protection ever brought me except ruin?”

Mark steps forward to the edge of his cell, tries his best to ignore the growing sting in his chest, to remind himself the world has changed now and that they have changed along with it, that Donghyuck truly doesn’t mean the words he says.

“You’re the only one I have left.” Mark lets him know, because as much as he wishes things were different and he still had his family to return to, his mother to wrap him in a warm embrace, his father to ruffle his hair - he doesn’t.

“I’m not  _ yours _ , Mark!”

Donghyuck’s looking at him with an expression Mark has never before seen on his delicate features, not when they fought, not when they finally parted for the first and last time in their lives. It’s like the fire inside him has burnt out in a quick flash of anger and all that is left is the bitter taste of ash on his tongue. “And that’s what you don’t understand - I’m not yours to keep, to protect, to chase after, because the last time you and your family tried to help me, you managed to tear apart whatever part of me I had preserved, and I’ve worked too hard to be where I am now for you to come barging in and take that away from me again.”

Donghyuck takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed for a second before he looks at Mark once again.

It’s the same Donghyuck Mark knew all those years ago - same lines and edges, just curved differently. A flower in a vase, blooming for the eyes of the beholder only.

“I’m giving you a choice. That is more than you ever gave me.” Donghyuck says and steps forward. Mark’s body winds itself up in anticipation, trembling hands reaching up to wrap around each of the metal bars that frame his face, and for a fleeting moment Donghyuck stops and he is oh so close that Mark could reach out and touch if only he were allowed to. “I don’t care what you do after this, but I’m asking you to let me be.”

Donghyuck simply drops the batch of keys between the metal bars and turns to leave. 

Mark stares after him like he’s the sight of home after a long battle, pulling him forward.

Donghyuck stops at the very corner of Mark’s vision, hands limp at his sides, and for a fleeting moment, Mark thinks he’ll look back.

Donghyuck doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always comments and kudos are appreciated  
> you can ask me questions on my [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/HILYUC) or follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/HILYUC) for updates on the story and my annoying presence on your tl


	3. for though he did not cry out, yet did he see the suffering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to update when I finish a chapter instead of finishing it and waiting for another week or so to post it because it's easier for me to edit a chapter before moving on to writing the next one, rather than writing another chapter and then going back to edit the previous one. This is good news for the time being - while I have free time (winter break now!!) and the motivation to write. When this burst of inspiration ends.. well... we'll see then lol  
> But enjoy the constant updates while they last I suppose haha  
> Also, you might have noticed (or maybe not) but I've added the sexual content tag, BUT I do feel the need to say that it's not really explicit, in this chapter at least, more than anything it's just very heavily implied but nothing's described in detail. I will let you guys know in advance if a proper sex scene ever comes up in the future chapters - in case some of you want to skip them!  
> Anyways,  
> I hope you like this chapter !!

Goosebumps travel down the expanse of honey skin exposed to the air, calloused hands trailing down his sides to soothe the cold, hot tongue lapping at the side of his neck to make his knees buckle. 

Donghyuck pulls the man towards the bed, pushes him on his back, and crawls on top of him because it’s late already and Donghyuck would rather get this over with quickly. 

“I will let you know that it is usually the other way around where I come from.” The man chuckles nervously under him, tongue clumsy as he speaks in a heavy accent, hand coming up to card through his raven locks while the other rests unmoving by his side like it wasn’t just feeling Donghyuck up through his pants.

“Too bad,” Donghyuck says breathless and leans down to kiss him.

Things advance quicker from then on - a ribbon pulled apart by hesitant fingers, slowly at first and then all at once. The soldier’s hands slide down to undo the buttons of his pants, recoiling for a second to let Donghyuck pull the linen shirt over his head, fingers digging into his hips when the fabric lands soundlessly on the floor like he wants desperately to feel Donghyuck mold like candle wax under the flesh of his palms.

Donghyuck keeps their lips pressed together until they’re both completely bare in each other’s orbit, breathing the same air, wanting the same thing. 

“I never caught your name,” the soldier tells him, choked moan slipping past his lips when Donghyuck grinds their hips together. 

“That’s because I never told you,” Donghyuck answers simply and kisses him harder.

“But why?” The man persists, treading through water Donghyuck would deem dangerous any other time, but his voice is so gentle when he speaks these foreign words, and his eyes gaze at Donghyuck like there’s something worth looking at. “Surely your name must be as pretty as the person who carries it.”

Donghyuck, somewhere deep in his gut, under the layers of alcohol and lust, feels guilt.

Guilt for drinking ale with the promise of coin the next morning when he knows he won’t be able to pay the debt. Guilt for having to leave sometime later in the night when the soldier will be deep asleep and Donghyuck will be deep in regret. Guilt for slipping through the back door of the main hall, ever so careful in making sure no one followed close behind as he made his way to the tavern across the courtyard to soothe the aching in his throat with the burning of alcohol.

(“Mark’s agreed to assist us with the lead.” Yangyang had told him over dinner in the main hall like it was the simplest matter. 

“That’s good.” Donghyuck had replied like it truly was nothing but simple.)

“And here I thought we came to fuck, not to share pleasantries.” 

The soldier seems a bit taken aback at the sudden switch in Donghyuck’s tone, hands coming to a halt where they were moving down the gentle curve of his back. He blinks up at Donghyuck with eyes that seem much clearer now, pupils dwindled, like all that it took for the spell to be broken was for Donghyuck to open his stupid mouth.

Slowly, his hands retreat from where they were pressed against Donghyuck’s skin, leaving him cold as he pushes him off, gesture ever so gentle, still.

“I’m sorry but I do not think that this is what I wanted.” He says, tongue sounding out the words slowly like he wants to make sure Donghyuck understands, back turned to him.

Donghyuck does, of course, he does. He might be an ass, but he’s not stupid. 

The moonlight filters through the thin curtains and casts a pale glow on the soldier’s back, over the hair on his head like a halo. Donghyuck sits on his knees in the middle of the bed, eyes boring holes into the door that tucks them away from the rest of the world, even if it’s just for a short moment like this. There’s still music and laughter coming from downstairs, rising to the ceiling and seeping through the loose floorboards of the little tavern room reserved for the women who had lead men up here before the templars chased them away to their lands. 

The bed creaks and Donghyuck follows the soldier’s bare frame as he moves across the room to pick up his scattered clothes. Their eyes meet and Donghyuck looks away, cheeks burning.

“You can tell me your name if that makes you feel better,” Donghyuck says when the soldier’s hand is already on the doorknob.

“Sadly I do not think it will.” He pulls open the door, one foot out of the room when he turns his head and says, “may we meet again when the time is right.”

And the door clicks shut.

Donghyuck sits there for a while to collect his jumbled thoughts until the brash murmurs in his head have subsided to a low hum, and his legs have begun to ache at where they’re bent.

He moves slowly, stretches his legs out until they're both hanging off the right side of the bed, the sheets tousled from where the soldier had lain before, and Donghyuck smoothes a hand over the soft fabric before letting his bare feet touch the wooden floor, goosebumps traveling up his legs and making him shudder. 

Donghyuck wraps his arms around his torso as if there are any pairs of eyes to shield himself from, but old habits are hard to lose, especially the ones pierced in his brain with ink so dark it appears like an image whenever he closes his eyes.

He picks his clothes up one by one, sliding them over the curved lines of his naked frame.

There's a half-empty bottle of rum on the bedside dresser, cork screwed shut, but Donghyuck pops it open and tips it back against his lips anyway. The alcohol slides down his throat smoothly, leaving liquid fire in its wake, letting flames engulf his gut and grow hotter and hotter until the empty bottle hits the table with a loud thud. 

Donghyuck lets it be for someone else to pick up and pushes the door to the tavern open, sudden light and noise hitting his senses with enough force to make him stumble over his feet before he manages to reach the stairs leading down.

No one pays him much mind, either seated around a table half-naked, in the middle of another round of wicked grace, or singing along to some tune the bard plays on her lute with skilled strums of her fingers.

Donghyuck manages to slip out unnoticed, and the air is so cold Donghyuck curses at himself for being stupid enough to leave his coat hanging by the entrance of his quarters in favor of going down to the tavern for a quick fuck, which, frankly, he didn’t manage to get anyway. Must be the Maker’s way of poking fun at his little misery.

He conquers the distance of the courtyard before the ground sways under his feet and Donghyuck has to sit down on the dewy grass to make it stop. 

“We had a bet going on.” A familiar voice calls out, sound replaced by footsteps approaching with no hurry. “Dejun said you’ll be back by tomorrow with a limp in your stride, but I said you’d come sulking back to your quarters before anyone’s cock got wet... He owes me four silvers.”

“Fuck off, Renjun.” Donghyuck squeezes his eyes shut and hurls his hand through the air in an indolent attempt to do some harm, missing completely. “And for the record, both of our cocks were wet enough, so tell Dejun he owes you only two silvers.”

“Too bad they’re both sad and limp between your legs now.” Renjun pokes at his side with a boot before bending down to sling one of Donghyuck’s arms around his shoulders, hauling him up with a grunt. “C’mon let’s get you to bed before the ale eats away at your brain.”

“Kun could’ve gotten Yangyang to carry me to safety. Like he always does. He never sends you to do the unimportant work.” Donghyuck tells Renjun with droopy eyelids, gaze sticky with sleep like honey, head suddenly heavy enough to fall against Renjun’s shoulder.

“Yangyang’s sleeping like all normal people are at this hour,” he says, maneuvering them up the stairs leading to the main entrance and then, quietly, “you’re not unimportant work.”

Oh, but all Donghyuck knows to do when he’s not letting people die by his hand is to kill himself softly by the hands of others. To disappoint is all he’s learned to do. To be less than needed, less than deserved, to ruin himself when there’s no one else to do it for him because, without the feeling of a blade at his nape in the form of a gaze, life feels like it’s not his to live anymore.

"Why did you help me, Renjun?" Donghyuck mumbles against the other's clothed shoulder, voice muffled by the fabric of his coat. He has to know suddenly, heart heavy in his chest and breaths pricking in the spaces between his ribs. He's always had to know.

"Because I'm doing you the favor of preserving the remaining parts of your dignity." He says between loud pants, breath fogging up the air around them when it leaves his lips.

"No." Donghyuck grabs Renjun's shoulder with his free hand in an attempt to make him look at him. "I meant before. When you found me in that warehouse. In Kirkwall. Why did you help me?"

"A few more steps, we're nearly there."

"You could've given me back to the templars, let me rot in that dungeon like I was meant to."

"You're drunk, Donghyuck."

"But instead I'm here, disappointing everyone as always. I was never meant to get out of Kirkwall, she was right for sending me there, she knew that's where I belonged." They stop at the top of the stairs, the front doors leading into the castle always open, bright fires burning on each side to guide their lost soldiers back home. Donghyuck keeps his head on Renjun's shoulder, looks ahead to the throne sitting at the end of the hall, golden in its own glory for no one here to claim. A little bird flutters in the air and lands on the tip of one of the golden flames shaped around Andraste as she looks at them with rust-worn eyes, engulfed in fire, and Donghyuck tells Renjun then, in the quietness of these stone walls, "I bet you've thought that I belonged there, too. At some point in your life. You have."

Renjun guides their conjoined bodies up the swirl of stairs leading to Donghyuck's quarters, careful on the stone steps so Donghyuck doesn't tumble. 

He pushes open the door to Donghyuck's room when they finally reach it, leading him to his bed, still unmade from last night's restless sleep, because what possibly can he dream of when it's not of mountains dipped in snow and eyes dipped in the silver of stars. Now Mark has ruined that for him, too.

Renjun lays him on the bed with tender hands, fingers quick to unlace his boots and pull the covers back for Donghyuck to slip under.

"Stay with me," Donghyuck calls out to him softly, like the last plea of a deer caught in a trap, dreading what's to come. 

A ribbon of warm light pools into the darkness of his room from where the door's slightly ajar, Renjun's hand on the doorknob.

"Goodnight, Donghyuck." He tells him.

 _There are no good nights when I'm alone,_ Donghyuck wants to say.

"Goodnight." He whispers into the darkness instead, Renjun already gone.

❂

Donghyuck's summoned to the war room the following morning by a knock on his door and Dejun's low voice on the other side of it ordering him to get dressed promptly.

Donghyuck groans in acknowledgment and slides out of bed, still dressed in yesterday's clothes smelling faintly of sweat, smoke, and regret. He hears Dejun's footsteps retreating down the hall away from his quarters and pulls the shirt over his head to toss it atop the chair at his desk along with his pants, boots already set neatly near the table by Renjun's delicate hand.

The sunlight is warm as it pours through the tinted glass and befalls upon Donghyuck's bare skin in a tender caress as if promising to coincide again once the long winter ends and the flowers begin to bloom despite the melting snow. Donghyuck dreads the days the sun disappears behind dusky clouds and he has to rely on other things to keep him warm - body, and soul.

Donghyuck dresses quickly, just as Dejun had asked of him - linen shirt, plain pants- and finds himself pleasantly surprised when no one greets him outside the door of his only private space in these walls.

There are still people seated at the tables when Donghyuck arrives at the main hall. Idle chatter fills the cracks between the stone and follows him all the way to the passage leading to the war room, falling silent when the door after him slams shut.

It's like an entirely different world - this part of the castle - separated from the common people breathing life into these ancient walls. The corridor is dead silent as Donghyuck marches down it quickly, footsteps jumping off the walls in fleeting echoes with every step he takes closer to the large wooden door sitting at the very end of the hall, twice the size of him, like the mouth of a beast ready to swallow him whole once he sets foot close enough.

He comes to a halt and pushes it open, the heavy thing barely moving against his body mass, and finds every one of importance already there. That is, until his eyes land on Mark, standing with his back straight and his hands behind his back like someone here's betting on how long he lasts without moving a muscle. 

“Why is he here?” Donghyuck clears his throat and gestures vaguely in Mark’s direction in an attempt to seem nonchalant, hair fluttering at the sudden gust of wind as the door behind him slams shut.

“I told you he agreed to help us with the lead,” Yangyang says and it’s clear from his strained smile that he’s not in the mood to put up with Donghyuck’s games.

Ordinarily, he would jab and push at the soft spots he knows Yangyang has just for him, but now Donghyuck’s head throbs at the temples, still, and the games have grown dull even for him as he replays them over and over again just to feel his heart spike in his throat; here he is a tamed wolf on their collar and for all the barking he does at any attempt to pull on his leash, Donghyuck’s not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds him. 

"Now that everyone’s here..." Kun begins with hands fluttering in a delicate motion like he’s to cast a spell. "Renjun, mind walking us through everything?"

Donghyuck moves to the space between Yangyang and Kun, resting his hands on the large table in the middle of the room, and leaning his weight forward to inspect the map splayed across the entire surface. He pretends not to notice Mark's gaze on him.

"My people have tracked consistent deliveries to the Villa Maurel just over the river southwest from here - big crates delivered every other day before sundown," Renjun says and drags a finger across an imaginary path on the map. "We tried profiling the dispatchers to find some sort of link, but they all come from different places with various backgrounds. Hired by the templars to cover their tracks most probably."

"Where do the crates ship in from?" Kun asks. "Have you searched the docks?"

Renjun nods, "we tried looking for a seal or some sort of pennant, a banner even, but nothing."

"Whatever they're delivering must be very important if they're trying so hard to keep quiet." Yangyang drags his eyes across the map like he's trying to see a pattern that's not there. 

"Can't be anything too important if they're trusting the delivery job to some common people," Dejun says and the way Yangyang turns to look at him has Donghyuck inching towards Kun with a deep sigh in a despairing attempt to not lose his sanity.

"Exactly," Renjun says. "They don't seem to be going anywhere soon, so whatever they need for a long term stay - food and supplies most likely."

"It's not food and supplies." 

Donghyuck lifts his head to meet Mark's eyes, something in his gut stirring at the sound of his voice, the embers in a put-out fire stirring back to life again. 

Everyone's staring at Mark, the first time he's spoken this morning, but Mark's only looking at Donghyuck.

"They're not staying here for a long time." He says, voice poised like he knows what he's talking about, like he knows it's what they desire to hear. "There's nothing here worth staying for, not for them. The mages are only here because you're in hiding, the templars don't think that way, their strategies are completely different from yours. They don't hesitate as you do, they don't have anything to lose as you do." 

“Still, why are you so sure it couldn’t be food?” Renjun raises an eyebrow, crossing his hands over his chest. Donghyuck knows how much he dislikes other people meddling in his business. Eyes of a crow, a network of spies spread around all of Thedas like a spiderweb visible only if the light shines right.

“It has to be something the people find no value in. If you hire a poor apostate to deliver a bag of meat, chances are you’re going to end up with a few chunks missing.” Mark says like it’s the simplest concept to him, like he can’t believe they hadn’t considered that, like he’s above everyone both, in this room, and outside of it.

“So you think the templars tell them what’s inside the crates,” Renjun states, not really a question because he’s used to being the one delivering the answers.

“They don’t,” Mark says and Renjun taps his foot on the ground two times, “but everyone gets curious no matter how much gold they’re promised.”

“So they’re hiring stupid people,” Renjun says.

“Not stupid people. Just ordinary folk trying to survive.” Mark replies.

Mark's standing up straight, the lines of his body sharp and pulled taut, and for the first time, Donghyuck truly looks at him. He is so similar to the Mark in Donghyuck's fleeting dreams and yet, oh so different, like a blurred reflection on a river's surface, staring back up at you, a face behind a dusted mirror - you know it's there, but if someone were to ask you to paint it, you couldn't.

Donghyuck doesn’t recognize him.

Mark turns to look at him like he has something to prove, something to promise to him that he can't speak out loud.

"The templars move swiftly. They strike with force and with numbers. Whatever is in those crates is meant to play on their strengths and push at your weaknesses. Lyrium is my guess, some sort of machinery maybe, but whatever it is, they're going to put it to use soon, and I don't believe any of us have to think too hard about who their target will be."

❂

Sweat's pooling at his brow despite the frost in the air around them, numbing his fingertips and giving outlines to his breaths with every exhale, the sun high up in the sky. Midday. Donghyuck's body aches from top to bottom, legs trembling when he pulls himself up into a defensive stance, dirt under his fingernails, staff gripped tightly in his hand.

"Again! Come on! You're lucky Jaemin's such a shitty templar or you'd have your head stuck on a flagpole by now!"

Jaemin flips Renjun the finger and Donghyuck laughs, grimacing at the sudden pain between his ribs.

"What the fuck are you waiting for? Attack him before he sticks an icicle through your head!" Renjun calls from where he's leaning against the shed containing weapons once dipped in crimson blood, now wiped clean like fresh out the hands of a merchant. 

Jaemin faces him, both hands on the hilt of his sword, legs bent slightly at the knees. He's panting heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his armor - _their_ armor - there's no flaming sword gauged in the middle of his chest like when he was on his knees at the sharp end of Donghyuck's staff, pleading for his life like a dog led astray from home. 

Donghyuck thinks then, for a split moment before Jaemin charges, that he should've raised the blade at his belt against the pale flesh of Mark's throat back in the war room just to have him beg for his life in front of everyone, on his knees like when he's at the Chantry to pray.

The slash of Jaemin's sword through the air sends Donghyuck staggering backward in an attempt to dodge it. 

The next swing cuts into the soil, metal clashing against dirt, as Donghyuck’s gone in a flash of white, manifesting in the space behind him with his head spinning. Fade stepping will be his demise one day.

“That’s unfair!” Jaemin shouts as he twists around with his sword ready to sever Donghyuck’s head off his shoulders in one swift motion, but Donghyuck’s quicker than him, because the advantage of being on the defensive is that, while your opponent's too busy spitting blood out from between his teeth, you have a brief moment of clarity to truly _think_. 

Jaemin steps forward, but Donghyuck slams his staff down into the ground and a wall of ice erupts from it like blades piercing second skin.

He hears Jaemin’s sword hit the ice with such force that it cracks under the blade, but Donghyuck’s fast to go around it, behind Jaemin once again in a flash of white, forcing him against the wall with a boot to his shins, sharp end of the staff pointed at his throat when he finally looks up to where Donghyuck’s standing, chest heaving, defeated by a mage.

“Maker,” Jaemin huffs out a laugh despite the position, peering up at the ice sprouting from the ground with blades his height, “do you think you could stab someone with those? Like, make them appear under a person or something?”

“You wanna try it out?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow and takes Jaemin’s extended hand.

“Maybe another time.” He says and Donghyuck pulls him to his feet.

Jaemin lets his sword clatter to the ground and brushes the dirt off his trousers with a drawn-out sigh. He’s a gentle soul, Donghyuck thinks, in the way he fights and the way he gives love to the ones around him - it’s no surprise he felt like he didn’t belong in the templar order where all that breeds are men and women with sharp edges that cut just as deep as their blades. What a shame war tatters all that is gentle by drowning it in blood.

“Do you think I could give it a try?” A voice sounds behind them.

Donghyuck turns slowly, eyes settling on Mark standing at the edge of their small combat terrain, gaze drawing away from the ice wall to stare at the mage who had produced it.

He looks so complacent with his hands in his pockets and body swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, and Donghyuck wonders how many times he’s patted himself on the back for his little one-man show back in the war room this morning. 

“We’re done for today, actually,” Donghyuck tells him with a forced smile that pulls at the very corners of his face, kicking Jaemin in the leg when he tries to open his mouth to say something Donghyuck knows will sound stupid. “Talk to Yangyang and maybe he’ll be generous enough to pair you up with a sparring buddy since you wanna fight so bad.”

He flickers his gaze towards Renjun who’s looking at Mark like he hates him more than Donghyuck does.

“I meant with you,” Mark says, and then, in a lower voice- “ _actually_.”

“ _Well_ , I don’t see any use in me sparring with you.” Donghyuck doesn’t twist around to look at him standing there with his chin held high and his eyes looking down on Donghyuck like he owes Mark something he thinks he deserves.

“Because you know you’ll lose?”

Donghyuck stops at that, halfway across the sparring ground with his staff hanging loosely in his grasp. His fingers tense around the handle. 

Jaemin gives him a troubled look where he’s a couple of steps ahead with his sword already sheathed, done fighting for today. Donghyuck isn’t.

“Grab a sword,” Donghyuck says short and simple, doesn’t bother turning around to look at Mark to hear his feet scuffing against the dirt as he makes his way to the weapon shack.

There are quick footsteps behind him, coming nearer, as Donghyuck watches Jaemin slowly wander towards where Renjun’s now leaning with his forearms against the fence built around the sparring ground, looking at Donghyuck like he’s trying to catch just the daintiest glimpse of what he’s thinking. 

But all Donghyuck can think about, as the shuffling of feet behind him stops, is how he should’ve just let Mark rot in that prison cell like he did with Donghyuck all those years ago.

“The first one to draw blood wins,” Donghyuck says and finally turns to face him. 

Mark’s not wearing armor. Cocky bastard.

“Want me to go easy on you?” He raises an eyebrow and does a shit job at trying to conceal his grin.

It bothers Donghyuck - the way he speaks, the way he looks standing with his knees bent, the way he looks at _him._ It makes Donghyuck shudder, bones rattling under his skin and his nails dig into the hilt of his staff because Mark shouldn’t be able to see the cracks in his mask to poke at and know he’ll get what he wants. Pulling at the leash he deems he placed around his neck as if Donghyuck doesn’t know better than not to stain his teeth with spoiled blood.

 _When have you ever gone easy on me_ , Donghyuck thinks, but what leaves his lips is a grumbled _fuck you_ , and he slams his staff down with a loud crack as ice sprouts from the ground.

It’s the same approach he used with Jaemin - drive up a defense before the enemy attacks and while they’re stunned, fade step around the obstacle and take them out from behind. While Donghyuck’s never had the chance to fight with a staff on the field of battle, he’s rather sure the templars have too much brawn over brain to comprehend what he’s doing before they end up with a blade between their ribs.

He maneuvers around the ice with a motion too quick for the eye to follow and wobbles on his feet when he comes to a halt behind Mark in a flash of white. 

But Mark’s already facing him, back turned towards the blades penetrating the ground like it’s nothing he hasn’t witnessed before, sword raised above his head as he swings.

Donghyuck succeeds in stepping out of the way with barely enough might for Mark’s sword not to come smashing through his skull.

“You can’t get away with pulling the same trick twice,” Mark grunts through clenched teeth as he aims the next swing for Donghyuck’s legs but misses.

“They say third time’s the charm.” Donghyuck has to raise his voice over the blood rushing to his ears, as he casts a glyph on the ground just inches away from Mark’s feet that gleams a spectral blue as Mark steps on it to set it off.

A scream catches in his throat as ice entraps his right foot, not sufficient enough to severely wound him, but enough to make him incapable of moving. 

Their eyes meet and Donghyuck flashes him a sharp smile as he slashes his staff through the air, the sharp end pointed towards Mark, aiming for his throat.

Mark’s quick, though, ducks out of the way of Donghyuck’s swing and sends his sword smashing down at the frost around his leg, ice shattering like glass beneath the force of his blade.

Donghyuck doesn’t have enough time to think, to cast a spell that could have Mark pinned to the ground and looking up at the sky to see the Maker staring down at him, because Mark swings his sword and Donghyuck has to throw up his staff to block the hit.

He tries to bring the weapon down and entrap Mark within a wall of ice, maybe piercing skin if he tried thoughtfully, but there’s not enough time as Mark raises his sword, and Donghyuck’s too slow, too tired, too much of a disappointment to notice the grin Mark flashes his way when Donghyuck moves to dodge.

Because the sword stops midway in the air, clearly never meant to find its target, and Mark ducks to kick Donghyuck’s feet out from under him, air leaving his lungs at the impact of his back hitting the ground. And he’s on top of Donghyuck in a flash or raven hair in the wind, kicking away his staff, boot pushing down on the hand that tries to reach for it, sword pointed at his throat, and for a split second Donghyuck thinks that the time truly has come for him to belatedly die at the hand of a templar.

“Do it.” He says between ragged breaths, chest rising and falling quickly, and for all that Donghyuck would like to make it seem like no one in the world could have him bend at their will anymore, he has no fight left in him.

Mark’s panting heavily on top of him, too. Sword frozen midair like Donghyuck had actually managed to cast a spell, looking down at him like his thoughts try to pull his limbs in either direction - to slam the blade down or to let Donghyuck go.

Mark huffs out a breath and lowers the sword, holding it one hand as he wipes the other one on the fabric of his shirt and extends it in front of him like an offering to his god.

Donghyuck watches, frozen, as Mark raises his sword to draw the blade across the flesh of his palm ever so gently like if it moves slow enough, the pain will cease; but he winces nevertheless as the metal pierces his skin, gazes down at the blood, his head shielding Donghyuck’s eyes from the sunlight.

Mark glows on top of him.

He releases his hold on Donghyuck’s wrist pinned against the soil, on Donghyuck’s breath caught in his throat.

“First to draw blood,” Mark says and steps away from Donghyuck. “I win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my [twt](https://twitter.com/HILYUC) and my [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/HILYUC) for questions/suggestions/cronstructive criticism/chatting whatever you want


	4. the stars stood still, the winds did quiet, and all was silent in prayer and thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use in this chapter - nothing major (I don't think) just a heads up in case you're sensitive to topics like these

When Mark was ten, his father took him hunting for the first time. It was a warm winter day, spring approaching steadfast, snow melting under the soles of their boots if they stayed in one spot for too long. They rode from the city of Halamshiral to the edge of the Frostbacks where the land split in half and sharp blades of stone reached upwards as if trying to grasp the sky in their hold. His father had said it was quieter here, fewer people, more game for them to bring home.

Mark had begun training a couple of months ago with a fine swordsman from Anitva named Estefan, but despite never have been hunting, he had the confidence that hunters did not use swords to slay their prey.

He had told his father such, tugging on the hem of his cloak to make him slow down.

"There are more ways than one to catch your prey." He said. "Sometimes you have to outsmart them, use something other than a bow and arrow - set a trap."

"Is that what we'll do today? Set a trap?" Mark whispered like if he were to raise his voice all of the animals in the forest would flee, and they would have to return home empty-handed.

"We will try."

"But how do you know that the animal will find the trap?" Mark asked when they halted to a stop by the edge of the forest that surrounds the mountains, mostly spruces, and pines, tall and sturdy against the snow. They had to watch their step now as to not scare the animals away.

"You lure it in." His father said and they kept moving.

Mark did not understand well enough how to lure an animal into a trap. Surely, you had to know what it was that the animal was after, what it liked and what it didn't, or else it wouldn't work. Like if his mother were to set a trap with white leeks to lure Mark in, it would fail because he hates them. Maybe the animal they set the trap for would also hate white leeks.

It would be simpler to shoot the animal dead - right through the heart, as Estefan would tell him.

His father had a bow on his back, one he knew well how to shoot - Mark watched from his bedroom window sometimes, practising in the courtyard when he thought mother was asleep. It made Mark want to go downstairs and ask if he could try hitting the target.

He didn't reach for it as they kept walking, snow up to Mark's knees, making him stumble with every other step, and Mark could feel his legs slowly become soaking wet even though his mother had laced his high boots thoroughly and tightly to keep his feet warm.

They stopped, father's hand in front of him.

He pulled down a branch from one of the trees, tying some rope around it as Mark watched with wide, curious eyes.

"Fetch me something heavy, will you, Mark?"

The boy looked around him acutely, nothing but trees and snow where his eyes could see.

"There should be a river down from here," his father said and gestured behind where Mark was standing with his hands limp at his sides, defeated, "a rock will do, son. Just be quick about it, alright?"

Mark nodded with a huff and made his way down the imaginary road his father had drawn for him in his mind.

Soon enough a lake came into view, just like his father had said it would, the size of a small ocean, completely frozen over with a thick layer of ice. There were stones scattered all around it, some the sizes of pebbles, some as large as boulders - all for Mark to choose from and allow his father to make the perfect trap.

He wrapped a gloved hand around one of the rocks, picking it up to test its weight when he noticed the drop of blood, bright red against the white snow.

He kept the stone in hand as he raised his head to let his eyes follow the trail of tiny red specks, legs following soon after. It didn't really strike in his mind that it could be something dangerous, an injured wolf perhaps, ready to pounce on him with sharp teeth as its lasts attempt at survival; because Mark had lived most of his life in the security of the palace, shielded from the true dangers of the outside world.

But when he stopped by one of the big rocks where the blood trail had disappeared and peeked over the edge of the stone, he was met with another pair of wide eyes - dark brown and frightened - eyes of a little boy. A little elven boy.

Mark gasped at the blood soaking through the boy's shirt, staining his arm from his shoulder to his elbow a deep red.

The boy was shaking, feet bare and no coat over his shoulders, gaze going back and forth from the rock in Mark's hold and his face.

Mark let the stone drop into the snow with a soft thud.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I didn't come here to hurt you."

Mark stepped towards the other, but the boy flinched away, wounded arm resting in his lap as the other held up his weight. He looked a second away from running - a deer caught in the trajectory of an arrow, not sure if it will make it out fast enough.

"You're hurt badly," Mark said, stopping mid-step when the boy scurried farther away. "Who hurt you?"

The boy didn't answer, eyes flickering from one place to another like trying to find something that could help him. Mark didn't understand. He was right here. Maybe the boy didn't understand what he was saying.

"You must be cold. How long have you been out here?" Mark asked, and then, "where is your family?"

The boy stiffened at that, staring up at Mark with unblinking eyes.

"No family." He said, short and simple, and his voice didn't waver despite his teeth clattering when he clicked his mouth shut.

"No family," Mark repeated to himself quietly and then removed his coat without a second thought, the boy eyeing him warily, "my father is up there, if you come with me, he will help you."

"Help." The boy muttered under his breath as if sounding the word out, like he was sure it meant something to him, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

"Yes, help. We will help you." Mark told him and stretched out his hand to give the boy his coat, body still warm because his mother had made sure to wrap him in multiple layers of clothing, insisting the weather in the mountains was much colder, despite the Frostbacks being only an hour ride away.

Mark kept his hand extended even after the boy had taken the coat from his grasp with shaky hands, wrapping it around his shoulders, small frame swallowed by the heavy leather.

"Do you have a name?"

The boy looked at the extended hand in front of him like he wasn't quite sure what the gesture meant, gaze shifting from it to Mark's face like he couldn't decide which to address first.

Mark crouched down so he was at the same level as the boy, still holding his hand out because he really wanted the boy to take it, to let himself be lured in like the stags in his father's traps.

"My name is Mark." He said and pointed at himself then back at the other boy. "What is your name?"

The boy scrutinized Mark's hand one last time, sharp ears twitching against the cold, and then his palm pressed against Mark's, and he let himself be pulled upwards, motion as gentle as Mark could manage. He didn't want to hurt him.

"Donghyuck." The boy said quietly against Mark's side.

"What?"

"My name." He looked Mark in the eye and pointed to himself with his uninjured hand. "Donghyuck."

❂

Mark's laying on his back, staring up, eyes following the subtle lines of the woven cloth - traces of delicate hands that had worked on it long ago draped over them, shielding them from the midnight sky.

A candle's still burning on the desk crammed with texts and scrolls of different sorts, casting a warm glow onto the left side of Mark's face.

He's tired, but not the kind of tired that could be soothed with sleep. No, it's a tired that has seeped into his bones and made them wary of breaking under his weight, dragging his heart down as far as it can go in the space between the jut of his ribs and the curve of his spine. 

Mark wants to rest, to lie with his mother and father, undisturbed. To offer Donghyuck a vow of eternal peace with just the two of them if he pleased, and to be met with refusal because Mark knows the lines of Donghyuck that have long ago bent into different shapes, unknown and unpleasant.

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and onto the pillow below.

He's cold despite the fur draped over him, despite it not being winter yet.

He closes his eyes and the world in all black spins behind his eyelids.

Blood rushes through his ears.

Mark's breath hitches at the sudden twist in his stomach, an unwelcome sense of warmth coming all the way up to the back of his throat.

Pain throbs at his temples as if banging against the inside of his skull to be let out once and for all.

There's a creak of wood next to him and then a voice, groggy with sleep: "You okay?"

Mark hums without sparing Jaemin a glance, fingers intertwined and resting over his chest, rising and falling rapidly, left hand still wrapped in a bandage.

"Are you sure?" Jaemin asks again, and Mark sees him rise up on an elbow from the corner of his eye. "You're shaking."

Mark tenses his body for a moment as if the sudden stillness of his limbs will make Jaemin forget what he had just seen.

It doesn't, of course it doesn't. Jaemin rises from the bed and walks over to Mark slowly, like approaching a frightened animal caught in a hunter's trap. He places a warm hand on Mark's forehead sticky with sweat.

"How long have you been here for?"

"I don't know." And it's true because the first days he had spent lying in a prison cell on the brink of collapse, impossible to tell for how long. And time after that had become pointless.

Jaemin doesn't seem to be satisfied with that response if the crease between his brows is anything to go by.

"Less than a week I think. Five days at most."

Jaemin sighs to himself, lips quirking upwards.

"What?" Mark croaks out.

"Lyrium withdrawal most likely. Unless you've managed to catch a fever in autumn that’s as warm as summer in the north."

Right. 

Lyrium withdrawal.

He's been warned about the consequences if he were ever to stop taking the drug, convinced that lyrium in his veins like second blood and a needle in his skin would bring him closer to God. But Mark never paid the warnings much mind, didn't imagine he'd ever reach a point in his life where he'd be deprived of the drug or, even less plausible, given the freedom to choose to stop taking it.

"How long before it ends?" Mark breathes through his mouth to dull the poignant taste of bile on his tongue.

"Too long for you to be making this decision now, when you've been trusted with a task too important for you to mess up this early on," Jaemin says. He's standing up straight now. "Do templars still have their vials on them in battle?"

"Yeah, but they stripped me from my armour, I don't think-"

"Don't worry. I know where to find it."

Mark grabs onto Jaemin's hand before the other manages to step too far away from him, cranes his neck upwards to meet his eyes. "Won't you get in trouble?"

Jaemin shakes his head, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes, and peels Mark's fingers off his wrist gently.

"We're not in the order anymore, Mark. No one here punishes you for wanting what you need." He says and sets one foot outside, thick fabric folded above his head. "If you feel like retching, for Maker's sake, please do it outside. The smell of vomit's a bitch to get rid of."

The cloth flutters in his wake as Jaemin disappears out of view.

It's hard to tell how long he’s been gone for as the throbbing at Mark’s temples feels as if engulfing him whole, and his body twitches relentlessly as tremors rush through it like a current.

Mark rolls over to his side to stare at the flame fluttering on the table, the wax of the candle dripping down and staining the wood. The sight helps, grounds him.

There are occasional footsteps outside of the tent, soft in the grass and careful not to disturb, none of them Jaemin. Maybe it's Donghyuck walking past, thinking of what tomorrow will bring and clenching his fists at his sides at the thought of Kun offering Mark to assist them to the villa, Mark saying he'd love to help. Maybe he's stopped by the entrance as Mark watches the fire dance, and maybe he's thinking of smothering Mark in his sleep with his bare hands, maybe of falling into Mark's embrace and confessing to him quietly that he's missed him, too.

Maybe…

Maybe.

"You still alive?"

Mark hears Jaemin's voice and the shuffling of footsteps before the boy appears in his line of vision, holding out a little box like it's a prize and not just a small bump in the downwards spiral that is Mark's demise.

"It's harder to tell by the day," Mark mumbles and lets Jaemin help him up into a sitting position, slowly so Mark doesn't spill the contents of his stomach onto their feet, legs hanging off the side of the bed and Jaemin having sat down next to him. The box is in Mark's lap.

He flips the locks on both sides and pushes it open.

In the soft velvet lay a vial with faintly blue liquid and a syringe next to it; the statue of Andraste stares at him with eyes carved in wood from where She's attached to the cover, Her palms pressed together in a prayer.

Mark takes the leather strap from where it's neatly folded in the box before he changes his mind.

"Don't you use anymore?" Mark asks as he folds the sleeve of his tunic up until it nearly reaches his shoulder, Jaemin taking the leather band between his own fingers so Mark doesn't have to bother pulling at it with his teeth.

"I stopped right after I came here," Jaemin says and wraps the strap around Mark's bicep, the leather cool against his heated skin. "They said they'd resupply my lyrium dosages if I helped them - the mages, I mean." He tightens the buckle and Mark winces. "I told them not to bother. It's not like I ever wanted to use anyway."

Mark wants to ask why he joined then. Why did he choose himself a fate so unenviable that people would rather help apostate mages than join an order so rotten from the very root that every branch has begun to disintegrate? But Mark supposes he didn't join out of sheer will either, and when Jaemin asks him a question in return, Mark doesn't have the strength in him to lie tonight. So he keeps his curiosities to himself and hopes a day will come when the time is right for him to voice his questions out loud.

"How bad was it?" Mark asks instead.

"Absolute hell." 

"Good to know." Mark clicks his tongue and Jaemin huffs out a laugh next to him.

They stay quiet for a while, Jaemin stiff beside him and the air seems to have grown thicker with each deep breath Jaemin takes. Like he’s deciding what to say, if Mark is the proper person for him to explain this to.

And then he speaks, tears the silence open with gentle hands.

"But now I can stand on the battlefield and I can wield my sword and  _ know _ that I'm fighting for what I believe is right and I'm doing so because I want to, not because I have to." Jaemin's looking forward with his eyebrows drawn but Mark senses that they're not looking at the same sight in front of them. "I didn't know I was deprived of feeling that until it was gone."

Mark takes the tiny vial in between his thumb and forefinger, raises it in front of his face, blue liquid glowing faintly in the candlelight. He's only got one dosage left. One glass container holding all that he is within itself - a though as daunting as it is empowering. Mark's hands shake when he pops the lid open.

"Lyrium's all I've ever known," Mark says.

"Then enjoy the feeling while it lasts," Jaemin tells him and takes the syringe in his hand, movements steady as he fills it up with lyrium, the liquid draining from the vial until it's empty as if perched dry.

"Let's hope this ensures both, your safety, and your success tomorrow," Jaemin says and hands the syringe for Mark to take.

His hand's beginning to feel numb below the leather belt so Mark takes hold of the lyrium dosage with as much hesitance as eagerness. 

Mark  _ needs _ this, he knows he does. As much as he could want to leave this little box forgotten, or let flames engulf it until it is longer no more, he can't. Because his body aches for the feeling of the needle piercing his skin and his fingers twitch in anticipation as he wraps them around the syringe.

Mark knows it's dangerous, to let something have him begging on his knees at the mere promise of more. Nothing, no one should hold such control over him, and yet, here Mark is, with the objects of his addiction in the form of liquid in a syringe and a boy sleeping peacefully within stone walls.

Mark lets the needle pierce his skin, and a new, better world opens itself up before him once more.

❂

Donghyuck’s pretty. Always has been, Mark supposes - all smooth lines and delicate features - but he can see it clearly now as they tread their way through the tangle of vines and branches heavy enough to drag across the forest floor. Like ever since waking up after the attack on the mage keep, the world has been a blur. Muted colours and images bleeding together, all of it coming together in a sharp focus as if the lyrium had travelled through his veins and set his blood on fire to let Mark burn the world to the ground with a swish of his sword. It’s a notion that he’s gotten used to, but that still digs uncomfortably in the depths of his chest, blade against heart.

Donghyuck’s not holding a weapon. The bow and quiver equipped with enough arrows to take down half a legion had been left behind at the camp upon Renjun’s suggestion that sounded more like an order to Mark who had spent the better part of his life on the receiving end of them. Still, the staff strapped to Donghyuck’s back glows a faint blue under the heavy shadows of the forest trees. Mark’s knowledge in weapon schematics is relatively limited, but he supposes staffs respond to lyrium in the mage’s systems similarly how swords sing in the hands of their templar owners. 

Whatever notion lets Mark sleep better at night.

They climb a steep slope for a better overview because the map Renjun had given Yangyang back at the camp, marked this as their destination, and they manage to spot the two templar soldiers on top of the hill before they’re alerted - by the Maker’s blessing or sheer beginners luck - tucking themselves behind tree trunks wide enough to shield two bodies from view.

“I hope Renjun’s having fun shooting at made-up targets with my fucking bow right now,” Donghyuck mutters from across the tiny stretch of land separating their group and rolls his eyes when Jaemin hisses at him to shut up. “Maybe we can throw pebbles at them until they get tired enough to come and slaughter us themselves.”

“ _ I’ll _ slaughter you myself if you don’t keep quiet.”

“Ask Mark to join you, I’m sure he’d love it.” Donghyuck barely acknowledges Mark as he leans down to wrap his fingers around a pebble, arm drawing back to fling the object over Mark and Yangyang’s heads, the stone landing with a soft rustle barely an arm’s length away from where their backs are pressed against the moss-covered trunk.

Jaemin turns to Donghyuck with an inaudible curse on his lips and Mark manages to catch Donghyuck’s sharp gaze before it softens as he turns to look at Jaemin.

There are soft murmurs from on top of the hill and Mark stops breathing to try and catch a single word of what they’re saying. Worst case scenario - they signal for danger and their little band of half-assed warriors has to flee before they’re spotted because they’re in no way fighting a legion of armoured and trained templars without ending up dead before the sun sets. 

Donghyuck’s sharp ears twitch against the sound of muffled voices and he nods his chin towards Mark like he’s both, choosing to bless him with a chance and condemn him with a curse. 

Wary footsteps approach their spot behind the tree and Yangyang raises a finger to his lips like Mark’s stupid enough to make a sound that would get all of them killed before Donghyuck manages to lodge a dagger in his throat first. 

Mark puts a hand on his sword out of instinct and Yangyang’s quick to cover it with his own, eyes meeting Mark’s. “Move, and the other one alerts the rest,” Yangyang says so quietly, lips barely moving, that Mark thinks the sudden lyrium dosage might have him imagining things.

Mark knows this, he’s not stupid. He’s spent time fighting battles as he has spent time preparing for them and analysing them with brothers and sisters of the order. Mark’s not reckless, his eyes don’t burn like Donghyuck’s when their gazes meet in a wordless exchange of a half-assed plan, his mind is clear with lyrium thrumming under his skin, and he knows not to challenge the people above him the way Donghyuck does because it doesn’t prove anything to anyone except that he’s not strong enough to stand ground.

But Mark also knows better. He knows how a templar’s mind works when they’re under orders, under lyrium, under the burden of the Maker’s will. You don’t yell for help when the Maker has entrusted you to carry out his will - no. You unsheath your sword and drive the blade home. 

Mark wraps his hand around the dagger strapped to Yangyang’s belt as the footsteps come to a halt and Mark can see the silver of armour glistening in the corner of his eye, and steps out into the open to dig the blade into the exposed skin where neck meets jaw.

“ _ Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your Name, _ ” Mark begins and drops the blade into the moss with a soft thud rather than a cling of metal, blood spraying from the wound in the man’s neck and staining Mark’s right hand as he holds the templar’s face towards the sky. “ _ And those who come to serve will know Your glory _ .”

The other templar moves towards them with his sword drawn, but Donghyuck digs the sharp end of his staff in the back of the man’s knees, blade slashing across his throat in a flicker of silver drowned in red. 

The man struggles against Mark’s hold with the remaining strength in his body, movements growing sloppy and weak as quickly as sand slips between fingers. 

Mark watches as blood stains the innocent green ground of the forest and the others step out from behind the trees with sighs of relief that lodge like daggers in Mark’s throat. 

“ _ I remember for them. _ ” Mark continues, needs the templar to hear and to know that it’s not his fault and that Mark will carry the burden of his death until he lays to rest once and forever.

“ _ They will see what can be gained, and though we are few against the wind-”  _

The templar goes limp in Mark’s hold after the last breath of life exits his body, and Mark lowers him on the ground gently, knees hitting the moss like a prayer. 

“ _ \- We are Yours. _ ”

Mark lowers the templar’s head from his knees and onto the ground, eyes staring up at the sky, unblinking. Mark closes them with bloody fingers and slides the helmet off the limp body to throw it towards the general direction where the rest are standing, looking down at Mark with gazes that don’t dare to stay in one spot for too long. 

“Maker take you,” Mark tells the soldier softly like he can still hear him and rises to his feet to see Donghyuck staring at him when the other’s gazes have moved away from him as if caught looking at a forbidden sight. 

“Put on the armour and move back so the others don’t notice the post empty for too long, or they’ll send someone up to check,” Mark says, Jaemin the only one who moves at his words, and Mark is once again reminded of where he is and who he is as the body continues to lie on the ground, unmoving. 

Mark doesn’t repeat himself, instead crouches to undo the buckles of the soldier’s chest armour, wiping his hand on his trousers to not stain the silver with blood. 

None of them speaks, and Mark’s grateful for the silence because the lyrium churns dangerously under his skin and he’s not sure he could resist the pull if any of them opened their mouths to say something stupid.

Even Donghyuck stays quiet as he lowers himself onto the moss and removes the gauntlets over the templar’s boots with a cling of metal as they hit the ground.

Mark strips out of the light armour the mages had given him upon their departure, clearly short on protection that wasn’t meant just for ranged defence. Mark didn’t bother asking for his templar armour, Jaemin had said questions like that would do more harm than good during times like this, and Mark began to wonder if maybe they weren’t as keen on keeping people like him in their premises as they had promised before sending him off to fight.

Donghyuck approaches him from behind and neither of them pretends to notice Mark flinch. He does the buckles of the chest plate as Mark traces his finger across the flaming sword engraved in front of it, branding him as belonging to the order. 

“We should get rid of the bodies,” Donghyuck says loud enough for Jaemin and Yangyang to hear, but voice still low just in case.

“Leave them.” Mark inhales sharply as Donghyuck tightens the strap below his ribs. “No one will recognise them as templars anyway.”

“They’re just more meat to throw to the wolves,” Jaemin says as he slips the templar helmet over his head.

Mark hums to himself and takes the helmet Donghyuck hands him, hesitating when he finally feels the weight of it in his hand. 

_ “It’s made of white steel, Mark. It’s nearly indestructible.” _

_ “I know but-” _

_ “You’re a future king.” His father nods towards the man standing by the cage twice the size of a normal one and he fiddles with the lock before the key twists and the metal door pushes open; a low grumble sounds from within as the qunari steps out into the open, body straightening, sharp ears twitching against the frosty air, horns severed off and resting above the fireplace in his father’s study. _

_ “Kings don’t fear anything.” His father says before his sword pierces the grey skin of the qunari and the beast charges towards Mark with a warrior’s scream. _

Mark slides the helmet over his head, and his hands still shake when he lowers them to his sides. 

“You and Yangyang can go down and track the courier, Jaemin and I will keep an eye on you from here,” Mark tells Donghyuck as he passes him to get to where Jaemin’s standing by the ledge. “I’m quite a shitty marksman compared to the obvious choice here, so try not to cause any trouble down there.”

Donghyuck’s lips twitch upwards in a ghost of a smile, gone before Mark can solidify the sight in his mind, and Yangyang nods as he moves down the slope, Donghyuck following suit without a single complaint. 

“You and Donghyuck know each other,” Jaemin says more of a general truth than a question for Mark to confirm.

Mark thinks of Donghyuck under him, pupils blown wide and cheeks red, chest heaving as he told Mark to kill him. “Not really.” He says and watches the templars move about in the mansion’s courtyard. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Well, he sure as hell likes you better than me. If I told him _go there and do this_ , he’d have my eyes gouged out with a spoon.”

Mark shakes his head lightly, “he wouldn’t actually hurt anyone if he had the chance.”

Jaemin snorts beside him, stopping a laugh in his throat before it escapes past his lips. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches the ground below them, so Mark does the same.

Donghyuck’s soft and gentle as Mark remembers him, carrying birds with broken wings into the palace to nurse back to health and waiting for Mark in his room after another session with warm tea and open arms. He wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose if life didn’t demand it from him.

He wouldn’t. 

Mark has to believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments are always appreciated and questions in my [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/HILYUC) as well (also i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/HILYUC) )


	5. you have left that path, it is already gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this episode of tainted red: Donghyuck has a non-hate-related thought about Mark!!!!  
> Celebrating little victories where we can get them, lads

Donghyuck rests his chin on the hilt of one of Yangyang’s daggers, blade half-buried in the soil, eyes tracing the caravan that moves slowly across the dirt road. He doesn’t know how big the crates usually were, Renjun didn’t exactly give them the precise measurements, but this one looks quite huge even from here, wheels of the caravan wobbling dangerously every time the driver hits a root that’s wormed its way above ground. 

The man at the reigns looks easy enough of a target, face and body worn-out from age and no visible weapons on him except a tiny dagger at his belt, but then again, even the plainest farmers carried blades with them while working on the fields these days. Just in case. 

Donghyuck twists his neck upwards as the caravan comes to a halt in front of the main gates of the villa, two guards on each side. He can see Mark and Jaemin perched up on the edge of the hill, helmets shielding their faces from prying eyes, and Donghyuck supposes they were right - a templar would rather be remembered by the sword he wielded than the colour of his eyes, or the shape of his nose, or the curve of his lip. Meat for the wolves. 

“Freezing one of the wheels should be enough to get him to stop,” Yangyang says and Donghyuck turns his attention towards the exchange happening far enough that Donghyuck has to squint to make out the details on the figures. “You can fade step back up to Mark and Jaemin while I get rid of the caravan. Tie him up well, put a gag on him - he doesn’t look like much of a screamer - but just in case.”

Donghyuck wants to roll his eyes and tell Yangyang that he’s not a child, that he knows how these things work, but he decides against it and bites his tongue instead. Mark didn’t word out a single complaint when the templar had set foot in the trajectory of his charge, didn’t whine as he dug the blade into flesh, and didn’t shout at Donghyuck for being reckless enough to put all of them in danger just so he could prove to himself that Mark wasn’t worthy. But he was. Mark was strong and smart and quiet when he needed to be, and he could beat Donghyuck into the ground with a single punch - but he didn’t. 

Mark didn’t.

Donghyuck wanted him to.

_ Come on, little wolf, bare them your teeth. _

“What do you reckon is in there?” Donghyuck clears his throat of the forbidden words rising up to the tip of his tongue. 

“No fucking clue.”

They watch as one of the templars slips the man a satchel, the gates creaking open as the rest move to lead the horses inside by the reigns.

“Looks like they’re hitting two birds with one stone,” Yangyang mutters as the man flings his arms around in disbelief, saying something to the templars that neither of them can make out from all the way over here. All the templar has to do is unsheathe his sword and the poor man retreats from him stumbling, watching as his caravan gets rolled into the premises of the villa, metal gates slamming shut. “Well...won’t have to worry about disposing of the caravan anymore.” Yangyang sighs and turns around to lean his back against the boulder that shields them from view. “Though, we could have used the horses.”

“They were probably disease-ridden.” Donghyuck attempts to comfort him, faintly hoping that Yangyang’s not actually upset about this. “The only horses worth getting upset over are the ones at Redcliffe or the ones at the hands of the Dalish. These two looked on the brink of collapse.”

Yangyang acknowledges his words with a hum and peeks over the boulder. “D’you reckon you could fade step with all three of us on your arm?”

Donghyuck considers. Fade stepping, in general, wasn’t on top of his fighting strategies because of how disoriented it left him afterwards - a perfect time frame for his enemy to strike the finishing blow. He’s tried it once with Taeil where it worked, and then another time with an injured Dejun where it didn’t. Renjun did it all the time, though, pushing and pulling Donghyuck around in quick flashes of white like a cat playing with the mouse in its grasp - why couldn’t he?

_ Because you’re weak. _

“Can’t you just take him?” Donghyuck diverts, doesn’t want to say he once again can’t do something they ask of him. “I can follow on foot, make sure no one’s around.”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair enough?”

“Yeah,” Yangyang shrugs. “I just took orders from a templar, you think I won’t listen to the advice of a friend?”

Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, lets the word  _ friend _ hang in the air, feels the taste and weight of it on his tongue. He’s been with the mages for nearly a year now which feels both, like nothing, and eternity stretched out before him at the same time. Donghyuck reminds himself that Yangyang calls everyone he spent the better part of a few minutes ‘friends’, all those years on board of a ship stripping the word from its heaviness, leaving it to brush softly against Donghyuck’s cheek.  _ Friend _ .

“Be careful?”

Donghyuck turns his head to where Yangyang nods towards, the man’s slouching figure coming into view and moving past them with feet shuffling in the dirt. 

“Always,” Donghyuck tells him and gives the other back his dagger, cleaning the dirt off the blade on the fabric of his robes.

Yangyang takes it with a smile and steps out onto the road, grabbing the man by the wrist and disappearing in a flash of white.

Donghyuck sighs warily and peeks out from behind the boulder to cast a quick glance towards the villa - all blue walls with tall windows and white columns embedded with gold - then makes his way up the slope on the path they had come from.

It’s quiet aside from the chirping of birds and the buzz of insects, summer seemingly eternal here despite the rest of the world already covered in a thin layer reminiscent of the winter frost. If Donghyuck were to close his eyes and stand still, he could pretend he was still in his mother’s arms with his siblings chasing halla around the forest and heart at ease from being home.

But alas, he is not, nor will he ever be again, so Donghyuck hurries up the hill with roots under his feet. No matter how much he tugged on the leash wrapped around his throat and strayed from the hand of those above him, Donghyuck had no idea how to live without a collar around his neck.

Mark’s eyes find him first when he emerges enough for the others to catch glimpse of him, and Donghyuck offers him a strained smile as the guilt gnaws at his heart with the way the templar soldier’s empty eyes stare up at the sky. 

Pity. That’s what he feels for Mark. An awful thing, really, pinching at your insides and making you do stupid things just to get the strain around your heart to loosen and let you sleep at night. Makes you say and do things that you wish you could take back, but leaves consequences that you simply can’t.

“My horses…” A voice sounds from his side, hoarse and empty like wind that blows through the spaces between your fingers, a faint whistle of what once was.

“I’m sure your compensation will be enough to buy you new ones.” Yangyang tells the man as he ties his legs together at the ankles, back already pressed against birch, hands clasped together behind it. “How much did they pay you?”

“A hundred silvers.”

Jaemin whistles from where he’s watching them from the ledge. 

“For transporting what exactly?” Yangyang raises a brow and pulls his body up in a straight line like a bow pulled tautly.

The man opens his mouth to respond, licks the skin of his lips that has begun to break from the force of his teeth, and then snaps his jaw shut. He clears his throat and cocks his head to the side. Something in the way he seems to hunch in on himself makes Donghyuck’s insides stir uncomfortably. He bows his head, and Donghyuck thinks for a moment that he’s going to pray, but he leaves his eyes open and stares at where a hole has been torn in his trousers from a stray branch somewhere near.

Donghyuck swallows and clenches a fist in the fabric of his robes.

The man raises his head and his gaze lands on Mark and Jaemin- quick flickers of his eyes as if trying to convey something he’s not allowed to say out loud in hopes that only they would understand.

“What did you deliver?” Yangyang asks again, hands crossed over his chest now, both daggers at his sides gleaming dangerously in the faint sunlight.

The man’s eyes shift to Donghyuck for a bare second- at the blood staining the front of his robes, at the staff glowing a faint blue behind his back from the lyrium that seems to stir to life inside him - their gazes meet as quickly as they draw away, and he looks to Yangyang with a newfound fear in his eyes.

“What was in the crate?” Mark’s voice cuts like steel through the drawn-out silence.

The man turns to look at him with wide eyes, at the templar armour, the sword at his side. “You work for them?”

“Just answer the question, old man.” Yangyang tongues his cheek.

“Betraying the order to work with mages, with- with _ abominations.  _ They’re gonna kill me now, they’re gonna- I know, I know it, and you’re just gonna sit by and let them!”

Donghyuck steps forward and bends down to look him in the eye.

“You’re no use to us if you don’t speak, you know...”

The man tears his eyes away from Donghyuck’s to look over his shoulder at where Mark and Jaemin are seated, body beginning to shake in fear and desperation: “I can pay you... I can! I can, yeah - all the money they gave me, you can have it. I swear, just take it. Take it! I don’t need it.”

Donghyuck moves to straddle him, knees on each side of the man’s legs, so his gaze has nowhere to stray except to Donghyuck in front of him. “What was in the crate?”

“I didn’t really... I mean I don’t - why does it matter? They’re a lost cause now,  _ please _ -”

“They?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that... I just meant-”

Donghyuck sighs and slips the dagger from his belt, pressing it against the man’s throat. “What was in the crate?”

The man’s looking anywhere but Donghyuck still, gaze shifting from every shade of green in the forest around them, every branch, every pebble, every drop of blood on the white of Donghyuck’s shirt.

There’s quiet shuffling behind him, and Donghyuck’s suddenly aware of everyone’s gaze directed at him, everyone’s presence near his own staring at him, at the silver of his blade, at the clench of his jaw, the tremble of his hands.

Metal clings against metal next to him and Donghyuck feels the heat of a body without tearing his gaze away from the dagger at the man’s throat.

Donghyuck’s heart sinks deeper in his chest as the silence stretches on and the man’s eyes refuse to meet his, but there’s still a faint hope somewhere buried deep that tells him maybe the man didn’t mean what he said, maybe he was messing with them, maybe he wasn’t thinking straight, maybe he didn’t actually know. 

“Answer the question.” Mark says from next to him. 

The man looks down at himself, at the blade pressed against the pale skin of his throat, then up towards the trees in what Donghyuck assumes to be a prayer, one Mark probably knows by heart and could recite if he were to cut the man’s tongue out for the lack of words it was forming.

But then the man’s eyes meet Donghyuck’s, body visibly deflating.

“Slaves.” He says, and Donghyuck lets the blade slide across flesh.

Yangyang calls his name with a tone of desperation like when in the field of battle, but Donghyuck doesn’t stay for long enough to bear the aftermath, faintly registering the warmth of a hand against his bare skin before he disappears in a flash of white. Running away like some wounded animal. Like a coward. A little wounded wolf.

It is only when he manifests again in the nestle of branches and vines behind the villa, that Donghyuck fully registers the fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Donghyuck-” Mark gasps.

“Let go of me.”

“Donghyuck, I can’t-”

He doesn’t stay long enough to hear the rest of it, stepping forward in the forest through the veil despite the throbbing at his temples, and coming to a halt in the vicinity of a cool brick hallway.

Mark breaks away from Donghyuck’s touch as if burned. His knees give out and he retches onto the tiled floor. 

Donghyuck steadies himself with a hand on the nearest pillar, the marble cool under his palm, and casts a hurried look around the premises of the villa - every door in his vicinity, every window, entrance and escape.

“Don’t.” Mark rasps.

Donghyuck looks at him over his shoulder, on his hands and knees that shake under the burden of his weight. 

“Don’t.” Mark tries again. “You might think yourself reckless, but you’re not a fool, Donghyuck.”

Oh, but Donghyuck was everything and nothing at once, a rope around his neck and the other end of it in the hands of whoever would take it. So why didn’t Mark seem to want it?

Donghyuck leans down to look him in the eye.

“You don’t know what I am or what I’m not.”

“Neither do you.”

Donghyuck straightens with a commitment to let Mark find his way back to their stronghold or cave under the templar pressure and rejoin the ranks. Fuck pity. Mark could ask for it from his God if he wanted it with enough desperation.

He fade steps from one end of the hallway to the other before Mark manages to cling to him like a leech again. A window stretches from floor to ceiling in front of him, overlooking the courtyard. 

On the other side of the glass, the crate’s been propped open at the side, two templar men overlooking the people who step out into the paved track leading to the front gates, backs turned to him. The elven people’s feet are bare, hands clasped together by metal and sharp ears twitching as they take in the sight around them - an unfamiliar place with templars prodding at you with the hilts of their swords like some wild animal.

Each breath seems to come out shorter than the previous and Donghyuck’s eyes begin to burn with the way he refuses to tear them away from the sight in front of him. 

_ Hot sand under the soles of his bare feet. Bright sun scorching his skin where it was not covered with a thin layer of silk. A pole digging painfully into his back to push him towards the elven woman. _

Donghyuck fists his hand in his robes, feels the fabric bunch up in his palm.

_ The cage rattled next to them as the demon clawed at the metal bars. _

_ “Harellan.” She hissed in elvish as Donghyuck took a step forward. _

_ Traitor. _

His breath hitches and his limbs twitch in muscle memory.

_ “Remember- you can save her, little wolf.” His Master said behind him, voice as ever smooth and calm, like the sight of his most prized possession in such close proximity to a demon fills him with glee rather than fear. “All you have to do is make that thing stop.” _

One of the templars pushes a woman towards the other wing, making her topple onto the ground, stone cutting her knees open to spill blood.

_ The shade raged inside the cage and the templar behind it took a step away from it, hand on the hilt of his sword in muscle memory.  _

_ “Come on, bare them your teeth, little wolf.” _

The templar barks at the woman to get up and she does, because there is no defiance in places like this.

_ He could tear the veil open with his bare hands if he tried hard enough. Bring ruin to the ones around him with a mere movement of his hand. To scare. To injure. To kill. _

Donghyuck steps aside from the window, staff digging painfully into his back where he’s pressed against the brick wall to shield himself from view. His fingertips tingle and Donghyuck squeezes his eyes shut to make it stop.

_ He wasn’t made to face the consequences of his actions, to be left to clean up the mess of the wrath that he had brought upon this world. To heal. To nurture. To protect. _

Donghyuck doesn’t look at the sight outside the window, can’t bare himself to. The world blurs as he opens his eyes, fingers twitching to wrap around the familiar binds of the veil. He can’t. Not now. Not ever.

_ “Ir abelas.” Donghyuck told her as the gate of the cage creaked open and the tears finally fell down his cheeks. _

_ I am sorry. _

A heavy weight pulls him backwards and a hand clasps around his mouth, and for a split second Donghyuck thinks this is finally the end and beginning of who he has always been.

But then a whisper travels to his ear. A quiet, “on second thought, you actually might be a fool.”

Heavy footsteps sound on the tiled floor, accompanied by distant voices that blur together in what seems like an easy conversation. Donghyuck shuts his eyes and tries to breathe deep as Mark holds him in place, grounds him until the footsteps slowly retreat and the clang of metal is heard no more. Only then does Mark lower the hand on Donghyuck’s mouth and the one wrapped around his middle. Only then does he let him go.

Mark pulls him into the hallway to their left by the hand, full of barrels and dark with no windows, the only light filtering through the ajar door leading to the courtyard. He doesn’t speak of the fresh blood on Donghyuck’s shirt or the way his hand shakes in Mark’s own, instead, tells him: “We have to get out of here. Can you take us back the same way you brought us here?”

“I’m not leaving them here.” Donghyuck pulls his hand away in a breathless flutter and unsheathes his staff just to feel the familiar weight of something real in his palm.

“You have to. For now.”

“I don’t  _ have _ to do anything.”

“Listen to me-”

“I am  _ not _ leaving them here.”

“You can’t take a whole legion of templars on your own, Donghyuck. No mage can, no matter how skilled. Even if I cover you and we fight side by side - it’s just the two of us against a dozen men. We will both die before we get to help anyone, and those people will be left here until someone on the outside deems them worthy enough of saving.” Mark’s looking at him, at his eyes and not at the hands that shake by his sides. It must look like anger to him. In some way, Donghyuck supposes it is. As is everything he’s ever felt - the root of all things in this foreign life.

“I am not asking you to fight with me. Go back if you want, but their lives are in our hands now, whether you like it or not, and I’m not letting them slip away.” Donghyuck steps forward but Mark blocks his way with a hand on the wall nearest to them.

“We’ll come back with the proper forces and a proper plan.” Mark’s voice sounds strained - a tone of desperation, Donghyuck notes. “Until then they’re just going to have to wait.”

“They don’t  _ have _ the privilege of waiting.”

Donghyuck pushes Mark out of the way at the same time Mark grabs him by the shoulders to pin him against the wall. “They don’t have the privilege of  _ anything _ right now, Donghyuck. And if you barge in there without thinking this through, you’re going to take away any chance of them ever having it.”

Mark’s looking at him with deeply set features, hands having moved downwards to rest on Donghyuck’s upper arms, desperate in wanting him to listen.

Donghyuck  _ did _ listen. He knows Mark’s words to be true, of course he does. He’s not a fool like Mark believes him to be. But Donghyuck’s also lived a life that has stripped him from the innocent naivety that Mark still seems to posses, thinking that they can be the heroes who bring salvation to the people just because they believe the world to be a better place than it truly is.

“You don’t understand.” Donghyuck tells him, looks at the flaming sword engraved into the silver on Mark’s chest.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Me. This. Everything.”

“We’ll come back as soon as we can, Donghyuck.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s just a day-”

“You don’t know what it’s like!”

Mark’s looking at him with those big eyes of his, mouth parted slightly and fingers still wrapped around Donghyuck’s arms like he wants to bind him here.

“Time doesn’t exist in places like this. A day stretches on forever and you don’t even notice the sun setting or rising because it doesn’t  _ matter _ at the hands of these people. You suffer through the worst and wait out everything else in hopes that it will get better even if you know it won’t.” Donghyuck tries pulling away from Mark’s grasp, but Mark won’t let him this time. Instead he holds onto Donghyuck tighter, looking at him and leaving his lips parted as if waiting for the right words to tumble out. But they don’t. They never will because Mark doesn’t understand.

He takes one step forward and Mark takes one back. On instinct. Donghyuck presses a finger into Mark’s chest, the metal of his armor warm under the flesh of his fingertip. “If we leave them here now, by the time we come back for them, they will have been broken. And there will  _ never  _ be a way to put them back together properly again.”

Mark lets the silence stretch on, only looking at Donghyuck in a way that makes it seem like they’re far apart, something between them that keeps growing - a glass wall that lets you see, but never touch. Lets you catch a glimpse of your own reflection.

Mark lets go of him, the skin suddenly cold where it had been warmed by the heat of another’s, and Donghyuck takes this as a sign of trust, of understanding, of a promise that they could go back to how they were when the world was big and they were small.

Donghyuck takes a step towards the entrance leading to the courtyard and Mark watches him carefully, hands limp at his sides until Donghyuck turns around to face the door, back turned against Mark - a perfect window of opportunity for a killing blow. 

But Mark doesn't take it. A bad soldier or maybe a good friend. 

At least that is what Donghyuck thinks as he wraps his hand around the doorknob, the light of outside hitting his face in soft shades of gold, and doesn’t register the footsteps behind him until a hand wraps around his throat and an apology is whispered into his ear before the blow hits his head and all turns to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shakes empty cup] please consider leaving a kudos or comment if you enjoy what you're reading because there are times when it feels like no one here does  
> the next chapter will also be from donghyuck's pov for the sake of ~story fluidity~  
> also you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/HILYUC) and my [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/HILYUC) is always open for sending questions, hate, or just chatting


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